


Alias Red Deer

by Blackadder261, LazyLazer, Thanks_for_the_letters



Category: Deutschland 86 (TV), Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Real World, As were Chloe and Rachel, Cold War, F/F, Minor Deutschland Crossover, Steph and Max were dating pre-story, lots of 80s references, spy AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-27
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2019-08-08 08:09:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 42,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16425653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blackadder261/pseuds/Blackadder261, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LazyLazer/pseuds/LazyLazer, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thanks_for_the_letters/pseuds/Thanks_for_the_letters
Summary: The year is 1987.Publicly, the cold war is in its twilight: foreign relations are at their best yet. Behind closed doors, however, the stakes have never been greater. The world is as close to annihilation as it had been during the Cuban Missile Crisis.Chloe Price, one of the CIA's best operatives, is given the most important assignment of her career: find and eliminate the KGB agent known only as 'Red Deer'.Little does she realise that this assignment will bring her to question everything she has ever fought for, or that she may be one of the few people standing between one madman and World War Three.





	1. Prologue: Predator, Prey

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER
> 
> All characters remain the property of DONTNOD, the only property outside of thise being any OC that the author creates, and the plot idea itself.
> 
> Aside from referenced historical events, all persons and events are purely fictional, and any relation to personse living or dead are entirely coincidental.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Red Deer thinks back on some of her past as she carries out a mission in West Berlin.

_Pallasstraße, West Berlin_

_September 16th, 1986_

_21.31 Local Time_

The taxi coasted through the street, still dotted with the occasional staggering figure. A West German citizen here, an off-duty GI there. Very occasionally, the odd British soldier, who’d staggered drunken from the old British sector. None of the alcohol, however, interested this fare. Nor, in fact, did the neon lights of the nightclubs, one of the better ones had been attacked already. It was business that interested her, regardless of how her mind attempted to deviate from the fact. She cursed in the back of her head at how inconsiderate the Libyans were. _Sure, they had their grievances with the Americans- who didn’t, these days? – but did it warrant going and blowing up one of the less shit clubs around here?_ She shook her head, turning her attention back to the present, before it was snatched away in an instant by the [synth-esque tune playing through the stereo up front.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MTlSjRMx5Ic)

 

 

> _Hello, ooh-oh, Vienna calling_
> 
> _Hello, ooh-oh, Vienna calling_
> 
> _Talkin' about Stella sitzt in Rio, Stella liegt in Tokyo_
> 
> _Männer fragen sie nach Feuer, nach dem andern sowieso_
> 
> _Sugar Chris dich sehr vermisst, dein Bein und dein Gesicht_
> 
> _Du kannst auf mich verzichten, nur auf Luxus nicht_
> 
> _Womit spielen kleine Mädchen heute, hier und dort und da_
> 
> _Ob in Tucson, Arizona, Toronto, Canada-_

Her mind cast back to the last time she had heard that song. It was about this time last year; the song had only recently released and had pretty quickly bounced up the charts over here. Sure, it hadn’t been a number one, but it was still played to death. _That will have been the last operation I did as a subordinate_ , she reflected, watching the city lights go by. _‘You’d better not let me catch you playing this shit, Maxine, or I swear I will tear your fingers off’_ , Otto had chastised her, having slapped her hand as she reached to turn the stereo up. _‘God forbid what our fucking handlers would think. They’d think you were going soft, listening to this Western garbage.’_ That operation had been her ticket to changing everything. Twenty-four or not, the Committee had figured her small form and build made her the perfect asset to play the part of a child. Children were never suspected, they’d decided. So, off she’d been sent with Otto, whom even by her standards was an asshole- to a degree only her instructors had ever hoped to aspire to- and a hardliner. Then again, that’s what happens when your partner for the operation settled in Berlin as part of the 28th Army. _Bet his real name was never Otto, either_. Her thoughts turned decidedly darker, as the next few days played out in snippets in her head. She may have hated the agent she was assigned to, but it didn’t mean he deserved to be planted by a counter-agent’s bullet to the stomach. It was well that he’d died as fast as he had, the cries of agony he’d given out even in that time she still found hard to clear from her mind. Even that failed to stop her finishing the job: naturally, it took an event like that for her superiors to figure it out that she could handle herself.

And she hadn’t disappointed, as every assignment since then- easily thirty, including all the shorter, two- or three-day jobs- had been completed with all the precision and finesse she’d been trained to use. From some of the sources the Committee had higher up in Western places, she’d made a nice dent in their assets. That, and almost every agent and secret policeman in the West had been shown her face: told to look out for her; told what she’d done; told what she’d do to them if they underestimated her. She liked that infamy, as much as she knew it to be unprofessional.

“Deine halt, Fräulein.” The driver’s announcement shook her from her reminiscing. She opened the door of the checker cab, stepping out onto the pavement, shivering as she did so. She leaned into the front window, handing the driver the money she owed for the journey.

“Shön danke. Behalten Sie den Rest.” She uttered to the driver, as she turned over thirty marks. Twice what the fare cost, but she didn’t mind. In her eyes, the taxi drivers deserved it, for putting up with some of their fares; that, and this guy looked as though he could use the money. The driver smiled, taking the notes out of her hand.

“Shön bitte. Shöner abend, Fräulein.” He replied, softly as she stepped away and onto the street, rubbing her gloved hands together and pulling the neck of her jacket tighter. _Scheisse, why does Berlin have to be so cold this time of year?_ She continued onward, fazed a little by the brisk nature of this autumn. Then again, ten degrees was definitely a damnsight warmer than Siberia. Some bright spark of a clerk had felt that, despite being due to deploy to the West on her first operation, she would benefit from a cold weather survival course. Minus thirty-two, the thermometer on one of the vehicles had said before they dumped her and a fellow agent in the wilds, with a small bag of equipment and a day’s rations to share. It definitely hadn’t been her most comfortable experience; she had, however, taken a morbid satisfaction in knowing that the clerk responsible- who, bless them, had simply gotten the forms mixed up- had been sent on that very course as punishment.

The memory of that clerk being at her knees after they had returned and recuperated from pneumonia still brought a grin to her face. As did thinking about the agents she’d served under as a child, how condescending and untrusting they’d always been. _Maxine do this, leave that alone Maxine, Stay here Maxine, you can’t be of use._ And yet, when she’d ended up in charge of a few of them a few years later, their attitude had changed completely. And yet she had always been on their level, never condescending, never an asshole-in-charge figure. She felt that in itself was a far more fitting and entertaining way of getting even with them for it. After what had felt like an eternity of work without reward, she’d finally gotten somewhere. Instead of having to lead lackeys, she had operational freedom. She had the choice of what targets she went after, and more importantly the option of not babysitting some bureaucrat that the Americans had their eyes on. She sighed, leaning against a lamp post and watching along the street.

Speaking of bureaucrats, that was exactly what she had been sent to deal with. Happily, this wasn’t a run-of-the-mill kind of person. No, he was more important, something to do with the Dutch delegation to NATO. She hadn’t bothered to learn much of the details of her targets: She felt it a cliché to learn every in and out of who they were, something they only did in Western movies. No, she’d only bothered with two parts of the file: his name, and why they wanted him dead. _So, Mr. Joncker of the Dutch Embassy, you’re going to die tonight because you’ve got the access credentials to Volkel airbase. And we want to know exactly how many bombs the Americans threaten us with there, apparently._ She still disliked the fact that she’d had to kill people without reasonable cause. Access to a nuclear base seemed pretty pointless when those nukes required the U.S. President to arm them.

Still, she continued with her assignments unerringly. Not because the politics behind them was always agreeable, but because she knew the price she’d have to pay if it turned out she was no longer a willing agent. She knew exactly what the hierarchs had to hold against her, and she had a pretty good idea of how long she’d last anywhere in Germany if that came to light. Finally, her mark appeared. A man stumbling out of a bar further up the street, briefcase still in hand. His suit jacket must still have been in the Embassy, or wrapped around some prostitute he’d paid to go wait for him at his apartment a few blocks away. _Good. As always, he’s come straight from the embassy to get pissed. Now, to work._ She didn’t even really need to follow him, she could just lay up in the alleyway, in the quieter streets, maybe even in the apartment block itself. She would always choose this method, however. She’d had the occasional target change their routine, go a different way. At any rate, she preferred this. For someone assigned a codename like hers, she was more the hunter than the hunted. The thrill of the chase was a drug she was helplessly addicted to. The sensation of stalking her quarry through the maze that was West Berlin, never truly knowing whether they were on to her, always having that little edge of uncertainty. It made her feel alive. The very thought of her impending task warmed her up a little, against the wind whistling down the street. Even though the Allies had heavily rebuilt their side of Berlin, risen it from the ruins that remained forty years earlier, it still bore distinct scars here and there. She hadn't been over to look at Tiergarten in a long time, but it was still on the mend in places, no matter how hard they tried to regrow all the trees. And who could miss the giant monument to her countrymen, flanked by Howitzers and tanks and guarded at all times by the Red Guard? Sometimes, she felt her nation was more interested in showing off to the West than anything else, especially if that big tower was anything to go by.  _Fernsehturm, more like 'compensator'._

She tapped a hand against the side of her head as her target took a turn down an alley, about ten metres ahead.  _As always. Then again, he doesn't suspect someone of following him. Why would he, he's on his side of the wall._ She quickened her pace to close the gap, keeping her footsteps as quiet as possible. Not that it'd matter, the drunken ass probably couldn't hear anything over his own slurred thoughts aloud. A moment later, she was within reach. Her hand went to the blade in her pocket. Sure, the Committee had ballistic knives, types that you could kill someone from twenty paces with and never get your hands dirty with. Even the knife she used today had a built-in cartridge, she could kill her target from this distance and probably barely make a sound. However, the cartridge was only used by two weapons: this knife; and the PSS. Both of which would make it pretty obvious who was responsible for the murder. Quickly and silently, the knife drew from her pocket, resting in her left palm as she gauged her quarry.

"Klivchenko sends his regards." She stated flatly in his native Dutch. He spun around, fear written across his face for an instant. He never stood a chance, as in a swift motion she placed her right foot forward, driving the knife in her hand upward between his ribs, and through his heart. He collapsed forward, letting out a slight, quiet, pathetic moan. She caught him, allowing his chest to rest against her torso as she reached a gloved hand around him, twisting the knife once in a slick, violent movement. His body jolted, before going limp. 

_It is done._

She softly laid his body down, peeling his fingers away from the handle of the black case. Gently, she scrolled in the combination that her superiors had provided, to ensure the case wasn't a decoy. Sure enough, the papers were there. All the documentation was there, everything looked in order. Before she left, she patted him down, removing his wallet and opening it.  _Must've been his payday. How unlucky, that a common thief should find him on this day._ She rifled through its contents, removing the bills from their place, and dropping the wallet back onto his corpse. She neither knew nor cared whether the West bought it any more, it was her M.O. Every hit she'd made, she always made it seem like a simple robbery. That her target had been murdered for the paper in his, or indeed her, pocket. She smiled slightly to herself as she strode out of the alleyway once more, flagging down a cab, and disappearing into the night. Minutes later, a _Schupo_ came across his cold, dead form, indeed surmising that the man was a victim of a simple, petty crime.

* * *

_Berlin Operating Base, West Berlin_

_September 17th, 1986_

_07.55 Local Time_

 

"So, when did you say they found him?" Peterson had seen some pretty rough times as head of the Field side of the Agency. This was rough, however. He hadn't seen the Reds be so brazen in almost twenty years. That disturbed him, deeper than he made clear.

"About ten last night. Cop found him dead in an alleyway. Police reckon it was a simple killing, by what they found."

"Let me guess: Stabbed in the chest, with all his money gone. Surely, _she_ isn't back on the grid, Joe?" Peterson turned and looked out of the window, over the urban skyline. 

"Think about it, Al: your average Berlin mugger woulda taken one look at the contents of that case, shit themselves and ditched it. No, those documents going missing can't be a coincidence. And of all the people that a mugger could target, the deputy head of the Dutch delegation?" He turned back around, to face his colleague. 

"Surely, the Russians know that-"

"-The President has to send out the arming codes, of course they do. But imagine how much havoc they could wreak if they were to, say, steal one of those things, or plant one of their own there?" Joe drummed his fingers on the desk, before making his next statement. "The problem is, we barely know anything about this fucking agent of theirs, and even if we did our efforts have turned up nothing. We've been trying to nail her for six years, and almost every agent we send after her either comes up empty, or winds up on our doorstep in a duffel bag. No, we need a new solution. We need some way of taking her out, once and for all."

Al left it unanswered, thinking over his next choice of words carefully. He knew exactly why he'd come here, and he had a solution, in his eyes at least. He just wasn't sure that he could convince Joe that it could be done. The agent he had in mind was prolific, if unconventional. Any normal organisation would've taken one look at this sexuality-ambiguous, anarchic headcase and sent her through the door. Not this agency, however. She was something else. It helped, of course, that her father was- had been- in the Agency, he'd subtly trained her here and there. She was by far one of the youngest agents they had in Berlin, barely even old enough to drink Stateside. Yet she could outperform agents who were twice her age, sometimes more. It was just a shame that her wild tendencies had led her straight into one of the Stasi's better spy-catchers. It was awkward that some of their best agents also happened to be inclined away from the norm.

"We have a solution. Well, had." Joe frowned, leaning onto the back of his chair at the statement, dipping his head.

"Lemme guess, the Ruskies already got him." Al shook his head, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger.

"Er, no. It's a little more complicated than that.  _She_ happens to have been festering in Bautzen Zwei for the past six or seven months, if my sources are correct." Joe froze solid for a moment, as the pieces clicked together in his head. He looked Al square in the eye.

"You gotta be fucking kidding me." Joe went back over to the window, banging on it with his fists, turning back and flopping into his chair. "Fuck! Okay, fine. Why not just ask me to get the Air Force to fucking level the Wall while we're at it? I'm  _sure_ the Kremlin will be just fine with us asking to get her back, what with all the shit she did to their intelligence network before they caught her dumb ass." He ground his hands across his face.

Al dropped the file he'd had in his hands onto the desk, right way up for Joe to read. "Yeah, tell me about it. However,  _IF_ we can get her back, I think she's our best bet of getting to this, 'Red Deer', that's been such a pain in our ass." Joe opened the file, his heart dropping. 

 _Why the fuck does it have to be her? Of ALL the fucking agents, why is she our best bet?_ The picture on file had been taken about four weeks before the agent's capture. Smug as ever toward the camera, the last remnants of the blue dye she'd been using as part of her cover in the West sector just fading out. He'd seen the case files of the operations she'd been a part of. Her reputation preceded her in any case. He closed the file and handed it back to Al.

"Alright, alright. I'll see what I can do. No guarantees, so... just try and find a backup choice, okay? Maybe even get the Brits in on this."

"Why'd we need the Brits to help us on this, though? We got enough manpower to start a small war in East Berlin." Al was untrusting as ever toward the British. Then again, as a descendant of one of the Boston Tea Party instigators, that was to be expected.

"Al, they've some pretty good operatives as well you know. Besides, we may need to butter them up a helluva lot."

"How come?" Joe grimaced, as he broke the news.

"Well, the chances are we're gonna have to trade them back some of their A-listers. Or half of Spandau. Probably both." Al huffed a laugh, smirking.

"Well, looks like we're both gonna need new jobs at the end of this."

"Damn straight. I'll call you if I have any luck." With that, Al nodded and left the small office. After he had gone, Joe sat down at his desk, opening the drawer and retrieving his drink of choice: A hip-flask of Schwartzhog. He opened the screw-top, and gulped down a good amount of the liquid. 

"God, why are you doing this to me? Six months left in the Agency, and you throw this shit at me. What did I do?" He leaned back in his chair, and sighed. After another few moments of careful consideration, he picked up the phone on the desk and punched in the one number he'd been hoping not to need today.

"Andrew, yes, yes, it's me. Listen, I need a massive favour from you. You're not going to like it..."


	2. The Bridge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter Agent Price, as she ponders her incarceration while heading for an uncertain fate. Or so she thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I hope you all enjoyed the opening. This story has been in the back of my mind for some time and I decided that I might as well make a start on it.  
> Where referenced music is concerned, it will be some of the more well-known tracks. Not to a point where's it's an overly recognisable song e.g. Rick Astley's "Never gonna give you up", but so that you as the readers may recognise it. Hence Falco being featured in the prologue.
> 
> I am not fluent in German, so if I make any mistakes in that language feel free to let me know. Also, if anyone happened to live in Berlin in the late 80s, I could use some assistance in coming up with locations that existed at the time that would be of use, i.e. restaurants and bars. Y'know, the classic Agent meeting places. The majority of the dialogue between characters will be written in English. Hopefully you can tell the sections that would be in German or Russian.

_Bautzen II Prizon, Bautzen, East Germany_

_Ministry of State Security Special section_

The battered, dishevelled figure sat curled up against the wall, under the brick-sized slit in the wall that let in the only light and fresh air to the room. She didn't have much choice of where else so sit, seeing as her chains were that short that she was virtually confined to the wall, Each wrist shackled separately. The prison uniform wasn't especially comfortable, made worse by the fact that the fuckers refused to let her out for almost anything, including going to the bathroom. She chuckled slightly, knowing that it was her fault at any rate. Ever since she'd wound up in this shithole, she'd devoted every waking minute to making the guards earn their pay, maling every effort to break their faces, or their toes, even attempting to escape on one or two occasions, when she was still physically capable of it. So, it didn't come as a surprise that after so long, they'd eventually resorted to locking her up in the darkest cell imaginable. She wondered how she must look: time itself had lost its meaning, long enough ago that she couldn't remember; she might have been here six weeks, or ten years, and it would still have felt the same. Her hair, as best she could tell, had grown unchecked, feral. Her nails had grown out to a length, but they were frequently snapped off by the sadistic pricks that ran this place, and that took great pleasure in torturing her every so often. They knew she had very little in the way of useful information, they'd figured that out a while back. No, they were just doing it because they found it fun. Her feet hurt like fuck too, probably because most of the bones were still not quite healed from having a hammer swung at them or a faux-clumsy guard stamping on them, and because bare skin being in contact with cold concrete and whatever half-frozen fluids and other stuff there was on the ground wasn't doing them a world of good. It was a miracle they hadn't gotten infected.

 _At least it's better than how they used to treat me. Fuck you biology, finding that shit a turn-on really didn't make my life any easier._ Indeed, the guards had used that to their sick pleasure when they found out that whipping her, or strapping her into a chair and blasting her with a fire hose, caused that unfortunate side effect. At least torture by arousal was more pleasant than being battered into a pulp of broken bones; her first few days were a red blur of regular beatings. Three officers coming into her cell, bludgeoning her to within an inch of blissful unconsciousness, and dragging her to the interrogation room, where the fun would start again. The face of that  _bitch_ , the one who tricked her into letting down her guard, was written onto her mind. She'd vowed to get even some day. Her mind cast back into the present for the time being, to this box. This personal void, empty of everything but her and her thoughts. Despite everything going on in her head, the one overriding emotion she'd constantly experienced here was disappointment in herself. Not rage, not frustration that she couldn't do anything, just disappointment.

 _Why the fuck did I let this happen to myself? I shoulda fucking known something was up by the way she couldn't keep herself off me. Why did I fucking throw away my cyanide?_ The questions tore into what was left of her psyche on a regular basis. She swore she heard her instructors in the back of her head every now and again, reminding her that it was normal, that the mind would do this when locked in a cold, damp, dark box for however long.  _Perhaps it's the last sane part of my mind trying to fight back,_ she thought with a snort.  _Way to be late to the fucking party, hero._

If she was to guess, she'd been back in the box for maybe a week, maybe a little more. The truth was, she really didn't know. Some of the newer prisoners had given her snippets of information, back when her food consisted of sitting with everyone else in the bleak food hall, instead of a tray being slid across the floor at her. Apparently, while she'd been in this knock-off of Hell itself, some nuclear power plant had gone kablooey down in Ukraine, and that Fat Tony had finally had his ass thrown in jail. Not that it was any consolation, seeing as how even a Federal Max prison would look like a penthouse in a Ritz-Carlton hotel compared to this. What had depressed her thoroughly was learning that shit had hit the fan in music: one of her favourite groups from England had split that she knew of. Still, despite that it seemed that the world was doing fine without her. Perhaps better for her being- she threw her head back against the wall, grimacing at the pain and dazing that had resulted from skull-on-concrete action.  _Snap out of it, dipshit._

The crushing darkness and total silence of the solitary cell was broken by a metallic scraping, first of a key in a lock, and then the screeching metal of the ship-like wheel that had to be turned to open this cell. The door flew open, the white light from the corridor outside dazzling her. She screwed her eyes shut, in response to the agony it created, and in anticipation of the monsoon of nightsticks she expected to start falling. Yet the latter never happened. She opened one eye cautiously to reveal a solitary guard, just inside the cell.

"Gefangener 622157, Raus!" He barked at her. She gave a wry grin, shaking her hands and making the chains rattle.

"And how am I supposed to do that?" She replied in his language. The guard strode over, to her, his features briefly illuminated. He looked... indifferent. That worried her a little, though she did her best not to let it show. Normally, the guards were either leering or in a fit of rage where she was concerned, yet this guy was a sphinx, he showed no emotion. He drew a set of keys.

"Try anything funny, and I guarantee you that  _I_ will have the last laugh." He stated, in heavily accented English. She nodded, twisting her arms so that the locks faced him, and he inserted the bulky key into one lock at a time. Chloe's arms flopped onto her lap, as she rubbed at each wrist, the sore skin feeling hotter as her cold hands ran over it. The guard dangled a set of shackles in front of her face. Frowning somewhat, she held her hands out and allowed him to snap them on, before putting a hessian cover over her head, as they'd taken to doing. With the guard tugging slightly to guide her, she shuffled out of the cell. Despite the sack over her head, the bright light meant that she could vaguely see features of the corridor, all almost surgically white. The guard stopped abruptly, causing her to stumble into him and knock him forward. 

"Entschuldigung." She muttered, an edge of sarcasm to her voice. The sack over her head was gripped by a hand, being yanked suddenly off of her, and taking a good few strands of hair with it. She gasped in pain, and scowled at the guard, now chuckling.

" _Entschuldigung,_ Fräulein." He replied, being as sarcastic as possible. He gestured into the room to his side, motioning her to enter. She gingerly stepped inside, jumping as the door to this windowless room slammed shut behind her. She scanned the room.  _Washroom? Something's fishy. What's the bet they're gonna gas me?_  On a bench by what looked to be the communal showers was a set of clothes, rather than prison fatigues, folded neatly next to a bar of soap, and some boots. She ignored them, picking up the soap and heading for the shower. She stopped in front of a full-body mirror. Slowly, and trying her best not to disturb any of the injuries she knew lurked, she stripped off the filthy rags that had barely left her body in so long, gagging a little as the contrasting stench hit her nose. The smell of them compared to the sterile disinfectant smell of the room made her chuckle again.  _Damn, I almost feel sorry for the guards, if that's how I smelled all this time. Hell, if I am getting put to death, I might as well go at least not reeking like this. _Finally, she took in the state of her body. Purple bruising all down one side, gashes here and there, thighs criss-crossed by the marks from the whippings, scald marks from having had boiling water thrown at her once or twice. She was in a godawful state, and she knew it. Even under all the marking, all the filth and grime, her body was a shell of what it had been, her battered and uneven ribs visible despite everything, and other parts of her body where the skin was almost hanging off of her. She shook her head, and realised that there were new tracks forming through the grime that caked her face, a few pained tears running down from her bloodshot eyes.  _That said, w_ _hat's left of me to kill, really?_

She turned away from the mirror and went into the tiled room, standing beneath one of the heads. Apprehensively, and having checked for peep-holes- having fallen foul of one the first time she'd used a washroom in here- she hit the button on the exposed pipework, immediately crying out in surprise and jumping back in shock as warm water jetted from the nozzle.

 _Warm water? They're definitely going to kill me. Normally the showers are fucking ice cold._  She shook off the thought for now, trying her best to clean herself down without too much discomfort. Easier said than done, when her body was a patchwork of broken bones and bruised, tattered skin. She winced and yelped as the scrubbed away the muck of her past, every movement across her body agonising and sensitive, before attempting in vain to repeat the process with her hair. After a few futile minutes spent trying to remove whatever was caked into the lower parts, she resigned with a frustrated grunt, and dried herself off, before examining the clothes closer. They were still in line with what Soviet prison fatigues looked like, a stonewashed grey, but in lieu of a mangy jumpsuit there was what appeared to be a two-piece tracksuit, with a white shirt to go underneath the tracksuit jumper, with a pair of Russian knock-offs of Converse.

 _Apparently they've evolved a sense of taste. Or... they want me to take part in the next Olympic games._ She gave a hollow snicker under her breath.  _Helluva fun way to give my case handler a heart attack, the old ass._

With a shrug, she slipped them on, grimacing and wincing all the while, sighing in elation at how comfortable they were in contrast to what she had been wearing. Especially having something on her feet, even if the socks were itchy and the sneakers were a size or so small. Taking one last look at herself in the mirror, distinctly less feral in appearance now, she rattled on the back of the door softly. She growled a curse under her breath at the scream of pain that rattled up her arm.

_Oh yeah. Those knuckles got busted.... some time. Haven't had long enough to heal either, apparently._

She was torn from her thoughts by the guard throwing open the door. Not bothering with the manacles this time, he marshalled her into the next room. A man in civilian clothing and emanating a stench of spirits stood behind a chair, with wrist restraints built into it. With some coersion, she sat down and allowed the guard to lock her arms into the chair.

"Are these really necessary?" She asked him, as he turned to move away. He tutted.

"As much as you are more tame than you were, I'd rather not take the chance of you stabbing our hairdresser with his own scissors. Because then I would have to shoot you here and now, and that would be a shame."

The prisoner blanched slightly as she took in the unspoken meaning of his sentence. All her hope of seeing home again dissipated once more.

 _So, they're cleaning me up to shoot a prettier target. Bastards, I knew it._ Despite her surge of rage at the notion, she held still so as not to make the barber's job any harder. Mainly because she didn't trust the drunkard doing the job to not take part of her ear off by accident while she sat still, let alone if she was writhing about. After a few yelped complaints from her and muttered curses at the state of her hair from him, the task was done. Sure, there was still material in her hair that she'd rather not try and identify, but at least it was back to a decent length, pretty much how it had been when they'd nabbed her. Just down past her ears, and just worn down. No real styling to it, just as she'd had it since she was sixteen. The guard removed her from the seat and remanacled her, leading her along a gantry toward the oversize steel door at one end. On each side, she could hear the applauding and wolf-whistles of her fellow incarcerates. Even in the short time she'd spent outside of solitary, she'd hit legend status, even among non-agents who were locked up here. As the guard released her to unlock the door, she turned back to the cell hall and bowed, with a theatrical rolling of her hands, eliciting a mass of cheering. The guard, rather than hammering a fist or baton across her back, grabbed her by the waistband and dragged her through the door.

She smiled to herself, at least having had chance to go out with a flourish. Most agents she knew of were taken out in the middle of the night, the staccato of rifles being a haunting alarm clock that awoke the remaining inmates. Nobody could sleep through it, knowing what it signified. If her counting was right, then at least eight agents had been sent for their appointment at the pearly gates while she'd been here. All excellent agents, she'd worked with five of them. She couldn't understand why she, of all people, was being kept alive. They'd gotten nothing useful out of her, so now she was just another occupied cell. Another massive risk if she were to somehow escape. She snorted with amusement at the thought.

_Yeah. Me, in this state, in the middle of a Saxon winter? I think I'd rather the bullet._

A few more empty corridors later, they were outside.  _I'm gonna guess it's springtime, maybe May at the latest. Too cold even for a Red summer, but there's no snow._ Outside sat a shitty white van, the staple of KGB covert transport. The Russians called them bukhanka, 'pan loaf'. The prisoner called them a fucking skip with wheels and a lawnmower engine. That had gone down well with her first van ride to the KGB field office, where she'd  undergone some of the worst of her punishment before being cast out to here. A dark hood was put over her head as she walked toward the van, similar to the ones used on the condemned. She knew what had to be coming at the end of this road trip: her trainers had once told her what she'd face if caught.

_'If they ever put you in the back of a van, with a dark cloak, then they're gonna be doing one of two things: either taking you to be executed; or the powers that be have decided to have a spy amnesty.'_

_'So, the former?'_ She remembered joking at the time. Well, joke no more. Strangely, instead of terror, she simply felt a sense of closure. That she finally knew her fate. She cried out as her head hit one of the rear doors of the van before being pushed inside.

"Whoops!" The guard chuckled. She half-smiled to herself under the dark canvas.  _I guess I earned that one._  The doors slammed shut, and with a rumble, the engine started up, taking her onward toward an almost certain death. Finding herself with nothing better to do than slide about on the floor as the van neared its destination, and her to her fate, she reflected on the shitty decisions that had set this trainwreck of a situation in motion.

* * *

  _Lichtenburg, Berlin_

_February 1986_

"Hi." The woman next to her had said as she sat in the bar. The place wasn't nearly as good as anything back over in the West, but it did the job. She was on a wind-down from an operation at any rate, and experience had shown her that this was the best place to find a companion for the night. Especially the kind of companion she was looking for. The operative turned to look at her, and was almost taken aback. She knew there were some damned nice women in the East, but she seemed almost too good to be real. Her hair, slightly darker than hers except that it went down to her shoulders, loose under a small beanie. A piercing pair of blue eyes, not much different to her own. An odd sense of dress compared to most Easterners but nothing that set off any alarm bells. The face did seem familiar, however she couldn't pin a name to it. Nonetheless, she was a stunner. A little pale in complexion, perhaps, but then again who wasn't in this part of the world.

"Hi." She replied. 

"So, what brings you to this dump?" The operative smiled back at her.

"Ah, just a little business and tourism." Her company raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And what business would that be?"

 "Clothing. From over the Wall." The operative replied , gesturing in the general direction of the Western sectors. "And finding time for a little pleasure in between." The other woman gave a wry grin, placing a hand on the one the operative had on the bar. She blushed furiously, staring into the woman's eyes.

"Tell me, what kind of pleasure are you looking for?" The woman replied, her grin growing. The operative smiled back, the redness on her face receding somewhat.

"You must be able to read minds..." she remarked, tailing off as she realised she still had no idea of her potential-future-bedmate's name.

"...Stefanie."

"Chloe." Stefanie smirked.

"Chloe. Unusual name for a German, even on the other side." Chloe's smile widened somewhat.

"Yeah. Father was a Prussian, mother was of Swiss descent. Some bright idea between them later, they name me Chloé." Stefanie giggled a little.

"Ah, parents. Whatever would we do without them? So, what would you say to a little pleasure right now?"  _That_ set off the alarms. Brazen was one thing, but offering to do her there and then? A step too far.

"Uh... I don't think here's the right place or time. Sorry." Stefanie simply huffed with amusement, taking Chloe's hand in hers and kissing it. She stood up and stretched, winking at Chloe, before making her way to the door. Chloe had been dumbstruck, taking in Stefanie's figure as she strolled out of the bar. 

 _Ho-ly fuck. How does someone like me happen across someone like her?_ She blinked a couple of times, still trying to register the banquet in human form her eyes had just had. Then she realised there was something in her hand. An apartment key, with a tag of the address and door code. And a note on a piece of string.

_See you tonight._

_S_

Chloe felt another flush pass through her as she turned the key over in her hand, her heart making up her decision before her mind could rationalise it. First, back to her apartment to change into something more... apt to the occasion. Apt it was. Off came the GI Jungle boots, the war surplus Olive drab jacket, the worn Levis and white sleeveless vest, and on with some more shapely clothes. A black T-shirt that exposed her midriff a little more, and a slightly more form-fitting pair of jeans with a pair of Russian Converse knock-offs. A black denim jacket over the top, and she was set. Nothing too risqué, she didn't want to get stopped or harassed before she got to the apartment.

And then, coming though the door of the apartment itself. She closed the door behind her, and turned toward the centre of the room. A pair of clicks behind her that she recognised immediately.

_Makarov PMM. Standard issue to the Stasi._

Just as she'd been trained, she swung low and swept across to her right, grabbing the first agent by the arm before either could react, grabbing the suppressor and twisting the pistol out of his hand, shooting him in the foot as she went. She put him between her and the other agent, charging him with his howling form. A well-aimed kick sent his weapon into the air and across the room. She closed on him, taking the wounded man in a headlock and levelling the muzzle at the disarmed agent's chest.

"What the fuck are you here for? Who sent you?"

Her mouth went dry as a cold, tubular piece of metal pressed against the side of her neck. A tutting, feminine.

"Ah, Chloe Price. So brilliant, yet so naive. Let him go, and put the weapon down." Slowly, she complied, all the while trying desperately to figure out a way of getting out of this mess. That voice was familiar, though with her mind racing as badly as it was, she hadn't married it up to a face.

"Good. Stand up, and turn around. Slowly." As she turned, she got her first good luck at her captor. The woman from the bar, dangling a badge in her face. The agent she had been holding at gunpoint had scooped up the weapon she had discarded, jamming it into the side of her ribs. Her heart pounded furiously as she took in the details of the badge.

_Gingrich, Stefanie_

_HVA, East German Secret Service. That's where I recognise the name from. The bitch is supposed to be some kinda prolific spycatcher. Oh._

So many emotions surged through Chloe in that moment. Frustration at being tricked. Embarrassment at being led on so easily. Hatred for her deceiver. All of this emotion, yet Chloe only managed to utter a single, frustrated word.

"Fuck!" The muzzle of the suppressor left her ribs, followed by a whoosing noise and a sharp jab of pain in the back of her head. She fell to the ground, a dull buzz in her chest where the floorboards had punched her in the body. The bemused officer stood over her as she lay groaning and dazed on the floor, vision blurred.

"It's nice that you dressed for the occasion, Chloe. We're going to be having a lot of fun, you and I." She gestured to one of the agents. Another sharp pain across the side of the face, and everything went black.

* * *

 _In hindsight, it was my own stupid fault. At least she had the courtesy to take me alive,_ Chloe commented to herself. The van finally stopped, and the doors opened.

"Ah, how nice to see you again, Chloe!" Her blood boiled at the voice. As soon as the guards had stood her upright, she lunged forward, feeling a satisfying thud of skull-to-face contact and a cry of surprised pain. The guards threw her to the ground, one pressing a boot down on her head. A mutter in Russian, and the guards picked her up once more, forcefully. One pulled off the hood, to reveal her old nemesis rubbing her jaw, yet still smiling back at her.

"Ah, so feisty! Tell me, how does my Chloe feel, now that she gets to go home?" 

Chloe grimaced. "A lot better, knowing I got to do that before you put me in a bodybag." Her chucklewas met by a high-pitched cackle from Stefanie.

"Ah, so untrusting! What do you think we are, barbarians?"

"Well, you're obviously about to have my ass put in front of a firing squad. I might as well have some fun before it." Chloe growled back through gritted teeth. Stefanie tittered, shaking her head. 

"No, no. Nothing of the sort. It would be a waste of a perfectly fine  _ass_ if nothing else. Besides, you're more use alive." Chloe went red at the statement and groaned with embarrassment. _Damn her and her tricks! No wonder she's such a good- ah, fuck, nice move Chloe._ She gestured to the apes restraining Chloe, who turned her around. She let out a higher pitched groan, realising where she was. Death by firing squad may be favourable to this: a bridge, pale green metal superstructure, about two hundred yards in length. A single white line in the center of its span.

Any spy worth their salt knew of this place. Glienicke Bridge. The best and worst news you could get, all at once. It was the best news because for a pre-war hunk of metal, it was a welcome sight and a dread. This was the fabled bridge, where the two sides would play civil and give each other their respective spies back. She just hoped that they weren't trading her and getting back an equally good spy.  _That_ would be a worst-case scenario.

"Like I said, you're going home." Chloe looked even more depressed and forlorn now than she figured she ever had in captivity. Ever in her life at that. Stefanie ran a gentle hand along her cheek, carefully turning her head until their eyes met.

"Don't look so sad, we're only getting two men back in exchange for you. Someone back in Moscow deserves their balls chopped off for accepting such a shit offer. I get my old team back, though, so I shouldn't complain." Chloe finally chuckled a little, letting herself relax just a little. 

"Of course, I should've guessed that these baboons aren't your usual henchmen. Not nearly gentle enough about how they manhandle. Or finessed, at that." Stefanie laughed some more.

"Ah, it has been so good to see you again. Be sure to drop by some time, I simply cannot wait to see you once more!" Chloe snorted and grinned.

"Don't take this the wrong way, but if our last encounter is anything to go by, I hope that it isn't this side of Hell." Stefanie simply smiled, though Chloe was sure she had seen just an inkling of regret under that face. The guards released her, one giving her a subtle push toward the bridge.

"Of course. Tschüß, Frau Price." Stefanie said, blowing her a kiss as she headed back to the van. Chloe grimaced, before turning her attention back to the bridge, and taking a comic-esque gulp.

_Her team got captured after they got me. Oh God, this might prove harder to live down than Prague!_

She steeled herself as she got within sight of the two men coming the other way. Neither party said a word as they passed each other, but she read their body language clearly enough. They knew better than to dismiss the release of one of the most dangerous agents the West had to field. Their look was of confusion, as much as Chloe's was. Why were they letting her go, in exchange for mere lackeys?

She crossed over the line in the center of the bridge. Finally back into the West. Finally safe. Three suits were waiting for her, with a black sedan typical of the Agency's Berlin fleet. As she approached the vehicle, the suit on the left of the trio approached her and jabbed her with a syringe. The center of the trio spoke up.

"My apologies, Agent Price. Standard procedure for repatriated agents." Chloe was puzzled.

"What do you...you...fuuuuuck...." she tailed off, as the drug took effect. She collapsed into the arms of the right hand suit, fading into the most comfortable unconsciousness she couldn't remember experiencing.

"Welcome home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I hope that wasn't too tedious.  
> Fun(?) fact: The KGB basically had free reign in East Germany, as the Stasi did in Russia. Stefanie was originally going to be Stasi, but they seldom dabbled in counterintelligence as far as I know. She'll reappear in the story, but not for some time.  
> Also, regarding Frau and Fraulein. In the previous chapter it was used as more of a compliment- if that actually works in the German language- where as in this chapter it's meant in the more derogatory sense. Hence why Stef doesn't use it toward Chloe (yes, despite what has happened, you could say she's got her eye on Chloe, God help her.)
> 
> It's going to be a few chapters before any real action begins, so as to give me time to build up the background of this AU some more. If I've made any glaring mistakes, or something doesn't read right, let me know and I'll put it right. And yes, I removed 'June' from the summary and made it simply 1987. I just needed to tweak the timeframe a smidge further, as this story is kinda like laying a railway track as the train runs along it.  
> Let's hope it doesn't derail.


	3. Echoes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chloe reminisces about her past and how she came to be an Agent while she recovers from her time in enemy hands, as a familiar face pays her a visit.

Chloe stirred with a low groan as feeling returned to her body. Her head still felt fogged, but there wasn't an awful lot of pain in her body any more. She supposed they must've given her something to numb the pain, or sedated her when they recovered her on the bridge. She opened her eyes, closing them tight again as the bright light flooded into them. Slowly, her body begun to switch itself back on. She could hear the roaring of jets in the distance. Her skin was bare against the surface beneath it, which felt soft, smooth. She scrunched her hands against it slowly, noting the lack of pain. Bedsheets. The smell of the room slowly infiltrated her mind. Sterile, but not with the pungent smell of chemical disinfectant like the prison bathrooms. This was more of a crisp scent, like...

_Like a hospital. I must be in hospital. What the hell am I doing here?_

Slowly, she reopened her eyes, taking in the room as her eyes adjusted to the light. Instead of the harsh electric lighting that she had become used to in one sense or another, this was natural light. Sunlight, coming in through a single-paned window. The details begun to log in her mind. Wooden wall coverings, white in colour. A grey metal bedframe beneath the mattress. The curtains looked old, like they hadn't been updated in about thirty years. The decor was certainly familiar, that was certain. Outside the window, there was a faint whine of jeeps running about. With a grunt, Chloe forced herself to sit up, enough so that she could get a line of view out of the window.

_An airbase. Can't be Ramstein, the room is all wrong. More like a British airbase. Wegburg, maybe? That's a pretty good medical centre._

Her assumptions were shattered by the ungodly roar of an aircraft overhead. Chloe glanced up, to see a black streak pass overhead, two orange streaks behind it. Almost like a UFO. Obviously, it wasn't, nor did the aircraft itself shock Chloe: she worked for the agency that scheduled most of that thing's fucking flights. No, the part that shocked and startled her was what  _seeing_ that black ghost taking off meant.

_Holy shit. Those things sure as shit don't fly from Germany, never mind Wegburg. Last I remember, I was in Berlin. The fuck have they sent me back to Mildenhall for? Are they really sending me back to America?_

She flopped back onto the bed with a disturbed groan. As if to compound her distress, one of the jeeps coasted by the window, [blaring out a track](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RMR5zf1J1Hs) that was etched onto Chloe's mind for all the wrong reasons. She closed her eyes, welling up, as the lyrics took her back.

> _To learn how to love, and forget how to hate_  
>    
>  _Mental wounds not healing_  
>  _Life's a bitter shame_  
>  _I'm goin' off the rails on a crazy train..._

* * *

_7th April, 1981_

_Arcadia Bay, OR_

Chloe had gotten used to this pattern of shit happening at home. Ever since things went to shit a few years back- '78, maybe?- with her dad being killed in a car accident while he was away on business, her life had become a rollercoaster that came off the track. The dickhead her mother had remarried to didn't help matters.

_'Vietnam Vet', she said. 'Good role model', she said. Yeah fucking right, the asshole is all over my case twenty-five hours a day. What kinda role model is that?_

"Chloe, will you at least listen, for once in your life?" The gruff voice of said asshole stirred her from her monologue. He figured he had some kind of entitlement over her, some plateau of righteousness above her, just because he served in some faraway shithole and didn't come back missing parts, physically at least. Chloe was sure she could still see the war behind his eyes, every now and again. Not that she cared much.

"Chloe!" She scowled back at him, narrowing her eyes against his. She was  _not_ going to be spoken to like that in her house.

 "Hey, asshole! Just because you married my mom doesn't give you the right to treat me like-" she yelped as a hand struck her across the face, knocking her head over to one side. As much as she wanted to treat this as a shock, it really wasn't any more. A backhander wasn't a question of if, but when. And mo-Joyce, fucking stood there and did nothing, said nothing. And Chloe wasn't going to take it any longer. She took one pace toward him and hammered a fist into the side of his face. She was pretty certain she felt a pop, as his jaw jumped out of place, and judging by the screaming that's exactly what she had done.

"Chloe, out." The voice from behind her came.

"Mom, he fucking deser-"

"Out!" Joyce's tone was final. Chloe flipped her off, and went upstairs. Slamming the door shut, she fell back onto it, as she put things into line in her head.

 _Some week this is turning out to be. First, the DA gets me thrown in juvi-hall for a week for dating his daughter, then sends her to some fucking boarding school, Delphian or whatever, so she's away from me. As if that'll change her feelings about me. And now, this just in: my own mom is throwing me out of the fucking house._ Chloe had a small, macabre chuckle to herself.  _She beat me to it, even if I was planning to get on the next bus outta town._ With almost a skip in her step, she grabbed her bag and her wallet from the bed, opened the window, blowing the room a kiss goodbye- finishing it with a bird- and slipped away. The next few hours are a blur in her mind, between the bus trundling out of the shitty detritus that was the Bay and hitting the first bar she found in the last place her bus had stopped. Sure, the state legal age was 21 for drink, but that had never stopped her talking her way past an ID check. She'd gotten slick at that, after all. Besides, the bar she was in was on the shitty side: if it weren't for the music being somewhat fresh, she'd have taken the place to be some kinda Prohi-bar. The music in question being something Black Sabbath, she wasn't sure which song. She wasn't a major fan, she was definitely more a punk rocker, especially with some of the stuff coming out of England that she'd heard and sneaked into gigs of.

There's a newspaper lying on the table in front of her. Even though she doesn't normally bother to read the newspapers, she takes a glance through this one. A tiny article on page twenty-two, something that far back. Under obituaries.

_Rachel Amber_

_22nd July 1962-3rd April, 1981_

_Rachel Amber was found unconscious in her dorm room by fellow pupils at The Delphian School late on April 2nd, 1981, and was rushed to Sheridan for emergency treatment; officials pronounced her dead early on April 3rd. Oregon State Police have confirmed the cause of death as an apparent overdose, and are treating the death as a suicide. She is-_

Chloe couldn't read any more. She balled the paper up in her fists, and threw it at the floor in an agonised rage. And then, that song. The one she hadn't been paying too much attention to a few moments earlier. 

> _To learn how to love, and forget how to hate_  
>    
>  _Mental wounds not healing_  
>  _Life's a bitter shame_  
>  _I'm goin' off the rails on a crazy train..._

The song sure as shit wasn't wrong. With what she had of her money, following a cross-state trip, she ordered another shot of whisky. And another. And yet another. After the last one, she crushed the glass in her hand. Yet she barely felt a thing, just a numb, buzzing sensation in her palm. The alcohol didn't block out the burning pain in her, nor did the shard of spirit-drenched glass distract her from what she felt. An overriding sense of loneliness, and an overwhelming feeling that Rachel, about the only good thing she had left, had flown this place, abandoned her. And nothing could throw that feeling, nothing.

Her memory of that night beyond there was hazy at best, likely down to how much she drank to try and take away the pain of her discovery. As far as she could remember beyond that, she got thrown out of the bar after some drunken ass made a crude pass at her, and she responded by breaking a beer bottle over his head. As a sick joke from whatever gods there were, the rain came down in torrents, quickly drenching her to the bone. Lightning echoed in the distance, and the street was deserted. That moment, Chloe had come to realise, was the beginning of a rapid spiral into the ground. As much as she wished that was the reason the song was stamped into the back of her mind, it wasn't. It was the next time she heard it. 

* * *

 

_Boise, ID_

_30th April 1981_

Chloe was sat in the back of a white van, trundling through the small state-border town. She could barely remember how she had wound up in this situation, beyond the basics. Drinking her way from one place to another, and having come up with the money to keep moving along in many ways, most of which illegal. Some of which had probably involved her selling herself during one of the many drink-induced gaps in her memory. It didn't really explain how the hell she wound up in this situation, however: a balaclava sat on the top of her head, ready to pull down; a gun on her lap. What the hell she had been thinking, or been promised, to get her into this fucking crazy plan she didn't know. There were six of them in the back.

> _Mental wounds still screaming_  
>  _Driving me insane_  
>  _I'm goin' off the rails on a crazy train..._

The van's driver turned the dial down, so that his front passenger didn't have to shout to be heard.

"Alright, it's showtime. Everyone ready?" A nod from each of them. The men nearest the rear doors of the van clasped a handle each, throwing the doors open. The half-dozen of them in the back, and three in the front, surged out and toward the Savings Insitution. There were six guards in there, all armed- classic .38 Smith and Wessons, they'd already cased the place- but none had time to draw. They stormed the place so fast that by the time they reacted, they had the muzzle of a rifle or the bore of a Mossberg in their face.

"Nobody move! This'll all be over soon." Their leader- Jackson, if Chloe's memory served well enough- barked out to the terrified patrons and tellers. Three of the gang ran toward the storage area, dragging clerks along, empty duffel bags over their shoulders ready to fill. 

The guards were rounded up and put under the guard of one of the other guys, Buck. Chloe was given the simple task of pacifying the patrons. Things had gone smoothly to now, they'd been in for four minutes, tops. They knew the silent alarm hadn't gone, so unless a cop happened upon things by chance-

Shit.

As if by jinx, a cruiser had pulled up outside. It must've been bad luck, or maybe this cop just made a habit of checking the bank out of good nature. She could see him through the window, eyes wide. His hand shot to the in-car radio as he stood by the open driver side door. She could just about hear him, the adrenaline having boosted his voice to a near shout.

"Dispatch, 3-1-Charlie, we got a 10-35 at Boise Savings-" A sudden movement caught Chloe's attention. Things moved in slow motion. Buck brought his rifle up in one slick motion, cutting the officer off mid-sentence with the crack of a rifle. The back of his head shattered as the bullet zipped through it, his lifeless body crumpling back into the car. One of the guards attempted to draw his gun in the second Buck was preoccupied. Jackson fired, hitting him square in the chest. He writhed on the floor in agony. Jackson strode up to him, drawing his pistol.

"Just had to play hero, huh?" With that, he emptied four rounds into his chest, pausing long enough after each to see him spasm. After the fourth round, he lay still. Stone dead, with blood seeping out from beneath 

"The fuck, Jacks? This wasn't part of the plan!" Chloe burst at him, still stunned by what he'd just done.

"I don't give a fuck, C. It is now." Their colleagues sprinted back from storage, duffel bags brimming with takings.

"ALRIGHT, LET'S MOVE!" Jackson barked at the remaining gang members. As they burst onto the street, the wail of police sirens became louder. The first cruiser screeched round the corner. Two of the other members raised their weapons, unloading into the windshield. It careened into a streetlamp. Two more came around the corner seconds later, both slamming on the brakes as they dived into firing positions and assessed the situation. The first men to the back of the van flung open the doors, ducking as the cops returned fire, turning the air into a snapping hailstorm of a two-way firing range. Chloe was the last person to the vehicle. As she went to clamber aboard, Jackson- who was sat in the back at this point- took his balaclava off, levelling an Armalite at her. Chloe froze, not knowing how to react. In that split-second, she was certain that she was about to die. That the round coming out of the end of that gun would connect with her heart, maybe her neck, or if she was lucky her head. Then everything would be over, and she could hopefully see her Dad and Rachel once more.

"Adios." With that, he pulled the trigger. The sharp crack from the muzzle was deafening to Chloe as the shot punched into her torso. She stood in place for a moment, a numb feeling spreading through her lower body. Dizziness overtook her, and she collapsed backward, concussing herself as her head hit the sidewalk. One of the doors in front of her slammed shut, the other being used as a firing port as the van screeched away. Chloe could feel the lukewarm fluid spreading across her lower body and along her back, as she lay. She sluggishly reached a hand down, pulling it away from the area to find it drenched in crimson. Breathing was getting increasingly hard, and she had a metallic taste in her mouth. Her vision grew ever darker, as the increasingly loud sirens became ever more blurred. A cop approached her, weapon levelled at her head, before immediately attempting to put pressure on the wound.

"We got a live one here, the fuckers double-crossed her." That was the last thing Chloe heard after everything faded into black.

* * *

_May 20th, 1981_

_Boise Medical Center_

Chloe awoke with a slight whimper as the stinging sensation in her torso wrenched her from her nightmares once more. Her memories of the past two weeks came back in fragments, here and there. Being loaded into an ambulance. Hearing a vitals monitor flatline. Waking up after spending time- six hours, a nurse had told her bitterly later- on the operating table. Being awake and unable to do anything, the food she kept trying to eat causing her to throw up again. Nightmares, her mother and David and Rachel chastising her in every one. Dad asking her various questions in a car ride before being hit by another vehicle. She tried to lift her hands to her face, frowning as they only moved a couple of inches. She looked down to find both handcuffed to the gurney.

"Chloe Price. Resident of Arcadia Bay, former star student. Tell me, how does someone like you wind up in a gang like the El Salvadores?"

She turned her head, grimacing at the stiffness of her neck. A youngish man in a black suit sat in the corner, badge attached to his left breast-pocket. To this day, she still wasn't sure why he made the choice he did: perhaps he saw some good in her; perhaps he'd known her dad; or maybe, the Gods were feeling generous. At least that's what she had thought up until she learned the truth.

_FBI. Shit, this is bad. Of course it is, what the hell did I expect to happen when I agreed to be part of an armed robbery?_

"You're damned lucky. Those clowns were using surplus Army FMJ in their rifles. Clean through, very little cavitation. Sure, it knocked your left kidney for six, and you're gonna feel like shit for a while, but you'll live. If they had been using, say, 75-grain, or he'd shot you anywhere else, we may not have been having this conversation. And I'd have to explain to your mother how her baby girl got mixed up some shit she never meant to, and is now in a box. Normally, I'd be here to be smug and to tell you that your next thirty to life is going to be spent in Hazelton. Not today. See, I know enough about you to know that'd be a waste of potential."

He drew a small envelope from his pocket, setting it on the dresser. Chloe noticed a set of clothes draped over it, a pair of sneakers on top of them. "That's a ticket for a Greyhound, leaving from Horseshoe Bend tonight, and enough money for a bus there as well as food and drink. You're due for discharge in a couple hours. I'll take you as far as the city limits." Chloe scowled at him.

"Why the fuck not take me as far as the stop itself? And where am I gonna be going?" The agent smiled.

"Yours is not to question where or why right now. As for the city limits, I'm at least giving you a choice." Chloe laughed.

"Time in a penitentiary or a ticket that I don't know the destination of. What kinda fucking choice is that?" The agent smirked.

"Don't ask me, I'm not the one who got themselves  _into_ this shit-pit of a situation. What I will say is that a friend of mine will be waiting for you at the other end. If that bus pulls up, and you don't step off, then every department and precinct in the country will be getting an APB about a 19 year old female, the only survivor of the El Salvadores, who escaped custody. Kappische?" Chloe blanched.

"Wait, the others..."

"-All wiped out. Stupid fuckers tried picking a fight with a SWAT team loaded for bear. What's the interest?" Chloe's expression levelled a little.

"Nothing, just... surprised they're dead. Not that I care, they're the reason I'm in this shithole with a hole in my side."

"...And the reason you're still alive, strictly speaking." The Fed glanced at his watch. "Well, damn, I better get moving. See you at four, front of the Med Center. Catch you later."

Chloe gave him a shallow smile. "Catch you later..." she tailed off, still not sure what to call him. The Fed looked puzzled for a moment, before it dawned on him that he hadn't given her so much as a name to call him by.

"Shit, how rude of me. You can call me Lynch." With that, he gave her a small wave and left the room. Chloe opened the envelope, trying to discern something from it. The ticket was to Union Square, DC.

 _Why the fuck would they send me to Washington?_ A smirk to herself.  _They trying to make me a congressman?_

Sure enough, at four o'clock sharp, Lynch returned. And by then, Chloe had made up her mind. She flagged down the next car heading North that she saw, and hopped in. She almost missed the Greyhound after she fell asleep at the stop, however the driver blared its horn, startling her awake again. Chloe couldn't recall anything about the journey, other than it took a fucking long time. Most of her time was spent looking back at shitty life choices and trying to figure out how she could possibly take the situation she was in now, and turn it around. She figured she would soon find out. Eventually, the Greyhound reached D.C., and as Lynch had said, someone was waiting for her.

"Chloe Price?" She wheeled around, to be met by a totally different sight to what she expected. Instead of a man in a black suit and equipped with a badge and black sedan, the woman was dressed casual. Pair of black hiking shoes, jeans that really brought out her figure, and a blue checked flannel shirt. Underneath, Chloe could just make out as skin-tight white vest, that seemed to further emphasise her assets, so to say.  _Dammit brain, stop trying to fucking fantasise everyone I meet,_ she mentally chastised herself. 

"Uh, y...yeah?" Chloe mumbled, caught off guard. The agent grinned. "Follow me, please." Chloe complied, if only at this point to ogle the woman, cursing herself all the more for doing it. The car wasn't what she was expecting either. A red VW Rabbit. Damn, this woman had taste in cars. As they set off, Chloe asked the one question that had been plaguing her all this time.

"So, what...exactly are you? I mean, you don't look like a Fed." The woman chuckled.

"No... strictly speaking, I'm not. Don't have a hernia, kid, you'll find out soon enough. Assuming this damned traffic eases up sooner rather than later."

Chloe had looked back on this so many times, every moment still as fresh as it had been all those years ago. The worst day of her life had turned out to be a blessing in disguise, she'd often mused, because if those events hadn't fallen as they did, then she may never have wound up doing this for a life. And, quite honestly, she couldn't imagine herself enjoying anything more.

Of course, this was before she found out she had been a marked girl since her father's death. As it turned out, rather than having been a businessman, he was a spy. The best the Agency had ever had, some said. He was a legend in his own right. The Fed who had identified himself as Lynch had been his partner on operations and was only posing as a Fed. When William had married Joyce, and Chloe had been born, the two had agreed that if anything happened to either of them, then the survivor would look out for the dead or captured man's family. And William, it transpired, had tried his best to teach her a thing or two before he died. Proficient in German, Russian and French, trained in both unarmed self defence and weapons handling- an unfortunate trait that the El Salvadores had capitalised upon- and basic wilderness survival, when they had gone camping. His death, too, was not entirely accurate to the obituary: he'd been returning from an operation in East Germany, and was at the extraction site when a KGB hit team showed up and took him out. No warning, no opportunity to go quietly. They just gunned him down in a copse just inside the Western territory. When she learned of this, she had vowed to find the men or women responsible and exact revenge for his death. A vow she held herself to even to this day.

* * *

Chloe's mind returned to the present, as the doorknob scraped round its arc, the door opening smoothly and slowly. She smiled, as a familiar face and form came around the door. The guy in question was in his forties- she'd never really been too keen to sue for more than that- and dressed as you would expect someone of his position to, kinda: Black tie, white shirt and semi-polished Oxfords at least. Everything else was a massive two-finger salute to the expected dress, with a pair of worn Wranglers. His facial hair as she remembered it: well-grown, yet maintained. And those soft brown eyes, a comfort to anyone. He sat down gently on the slightly rickety chair next to her bed.

"Been a while, Mark. How's the Service treatin' ya?" Mark- or Head Intelligence Officer Jefferson, as he hated to be called- was prolific in his career, and was a lynchpin of the cooperation between the CIA and MI6, whose turf she was apparently on at the time. He'd worked as an 'advisor' in his early days, out in Vietnam for the British government. After that, there were so many places in so many countries that the files barely kept up: Iran, Afghanistan, Libya, East Germany... he'd been everywhere, with countless successes and foiled attacks on 'dear England' in the time he'd been active. She'd worked alongside him a few times, and found him to outshine even the sparkling reports of him that his dossier and former team-mates outlined. She knew he had his quirks, though: some pretty unusual ways of getting the job done, and a sense of morality that was on par with Chloe's; twisted somewhat by the horrors of the places he'd been and the things he'd witnessed. That, and for a straight, single guy- Chloe had found this out during idle chatter on a flight home, once- he had a rather greater understanding of BDSM than she'd expected. That had been a rather embarrassing thing, and she still hadn't quite got the images the words had created out of her head.

He chuckled, as he always did at a remark like that.

"Good as ever: bone pay, miserable weather. How was Bautzen?" He returned, in the soft Scottish accent that his voice naturally took. Chloe groaned, pulling the sheet over her head.

"Oh God... even you know?" An even heartier chuckle.

"The better question is who doesn't. I believe that lesson of Spy School was called 'don't try and bed enemy operatives, again'. Pillock." 

A pair of eyes appeared from behind the linen. "Hey, in my defence, she led me on."

"Only because she's the same way inclined as you are, Chloe." Mark countered. Before he could make his next statement, Chloe cut him off. She had no idea how long she had been away for, what had changed, who the key players were now. If she'd learned just one thing in training, it was that information was vital. Knowing the state of play was more important that the mission itself, she'd seen that firsthand.

"Mark, how long have I been gone?" Mark's brow furrowed, in a way that made Chloe's heart sink.

"So, nobody's been through this with you yet? How long do you think you've been gone?"

"Mark, would it kill you to give a straight answer every now and again? I don't know, six months, maybe?" Mark shook his head.

"Sadly, no. It's June. June '87. So, uh, happy late 25th. Though, we have had you back since April, you've just been either out of it or high as fuck for the most part so they could fix you." Chloe's head rotated backward on the pillow, as she stared at the roof and tried to process what she'd been told. 

"'87... Fourteen months. I fucked up good, didn't I?"

"That's certainly one way of looking at it. Shit happens, Chloe, even to an agent as good as you, you just have to learn to heal the bruised ego and battered pride and move on. Now, you've probably guessed I'm not just here for the chit-chat, as much as it's always fun where you're concerned." Chloe sighed.

"Great." She muttered, seeing Mark raise an eyebrow.  _Yep, this is bad news. I know him too fucking well._

"How so?" Chloe shrugged, sure she was about to state the obvious.

"Well, if they went to the effort of trading to get me back, then I'm gonna presume all is not exactly fucking rosy in town." Mark nodded a little, confirming her assumption.

"You could say that. What do you know of an enemy player known as Red Deer?" Chloe furrowed her brow.

"When I said things weren't rosy, I didn't realise you meant they were this bad." She answered. "I only know as much as the dossiers and reports say: no known alias; no D.O.B; nothing. Just a long trail of bodies and a lot of suspected actions. Supposed to be at least as good as me, if not better." Mark smiled.

"Modest as always." Chloe grinned back in return. "At least you know who your mark is. As far as I've been read into it, you're getting sent back to Berlin once you recover. As far as I've been back-briefed on things, your mission will be to take down the Deer." Chloe's eyes widened in surprise.

"Well, they're not asking much, are they?" A grimace from Mark. He knew she was making light of it as best she could. He knew that she knew what she was about to get thrown into.

"Andrews is supposed to be briefing you later today." Chloe audibly gulped. That was a name she did  _not_ want to hear. Secretary Andrews. He was almost a polar opposite of Mark: he particularly had a disliking for Chloe, the straight-laced bastard that he was.

"Please, please tell me he hasn't found out  _why_ I got caught." Chloe begged, a slight wail of desperation to her voice. Mark shrugged.

"Not a clue. Sure you can ask him later, though." Chloe paled a little at the thought of how that'd go. Mark went to stand up. "Enjoy your recuperation, and try not to piss off your assessors."

"What?" Chloe asked, incredulous. Mark smiled again.

"Your 'fit-for-service' assessments. The Agency wants to make sure that you ain't been flipped, and to make sure that the sadism and kinks the Reds used on you hasn't knocked your ability to be you at all. Plus, it gives your face a little extra time to heal up." Chloe scowled at him, playfully.

"How dare they doubt my abilities! Do they not know who I am?" Another hearty chuckle from her company.

"Think yourself lucky: it's only the short, week-long version they're putting you through. They haven't even officially grounded you either, although there would be no point as you're having a lie-in on such a rare day as this. Beautiful weather, and you're wasting every second of it." Chloe stuck two fingers up at him.

"Yeah, yeah. First time I've actually been awake and known I'm awake. While I think about it, I hear The Clash broke up."

Mark nodded. "Yup, about a month after you were nabbed. Madness are still on the go."

"Really?" An impish grin crept onto his face.

"Nope, they split this time last year. I could always get you a ticket to see Fleetwood Mac if you like, though." Another loud groan from Chloe.

"Come on! Half this country's great bands split while I'm away, yet  _those_ assholes are still going? What does the world have against me?" Mark shook his head with a smile.

"Same old you. Nice to see they didn't short anything important out." With that, he stood up and left, allowing Chloe to lie in silence once more and get her head around everything.

 

_They're sending me after the Red Deer. The fucking star agent of the KGB, and they want me to find them and take them out._

_Well, nice to see they're letting me settle down with something nice and easy._ She smirked nervously at the thought of the task that likely lay ahead.

_I just hope they aren't as good as the reports say. I'm fucked otherwise._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, when is there gonna be some action? I don't want this story to race off too fast and not properly detail the background, so for now we're moving slowly. Things will pick up over the next few chapters though. 
> 
> As for the GSW that Chloe suffered, I haven't access to weapons or a suitable test mechanism so I had to guess a little. Originally it was going to be a .32 S&W but I felt that would be pretty terminal regardless of impact point. If anyone knows better, please let me know.  
> As always, I hope you enjoyed. And personally, I loke all three named bands. I just figure Chloe wouldn't like the latter so much.


	4. The Assignment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chloe is briefed by Secretary Andrews on the task at hand, prior to her return to the City of Spies, as well as being reacquainted with the British side of the operation, whether she likes it or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah. It's been almost a month since I last did any work on this story. My bad, my schedule is out the window in a thermonuclear fire and is unlikely to improve given my working hours for the year. In a word, they are "ouch!". I'll try to keep this and _What the Future Holds_ updated as best I can. I'll be working on this, publishing a chapter, then _What the Future Holds_ rather than doing them concurrently and getting plot lines mixed up. I've had the basic format of this chapter in my head the whole time I was writing Chapter 4 _Future_ , but I figured having 2 stories being worked on concurrently was a disaster waiting to happen.
> 
> Hope it's been worth the wait!

_July 1st, 1987_

_London, England_

Chloe sat on the bare-boned chair outside the office, tapping her hand on her leg both nervously and impatiently. The last few weeks had been a blur in effect for her, between the tests being run by the Agency's physical and psychiatric assessors and her unceremonious launching back into the world that she had been ripped from fifteen months or so earlier. It was still surprising her how much the world had changed in a little over a year, and there was a lot on her side of the world that she was still getting up to speed with. All of which had apparently gone well enough for her to be put back on operational status, or so she'd read in some file or other. Mark must've gotten his dates wrong when she had first woken up, as Andrews wasn't even in Europe when she woke up, let alone London. She had been taken there shortly after she had been able to get up and move around under her own steam. It was odd how inter-meshed the two services were now, given the history she'd come to be aware of. She mused the possibilities.

_Guess Afghanistan was useful for something after all, other than giving all those warlords all that lovely cash and training._

Her mind wandered back over the assessments themselves. Perhaps the worst part of them was the psychiatric assessments. The room, the chair, the manner in which the Agency shrink spoke, it was all dragging up snippets of their counterparts, on the other side of the wall. All the fucking place was missing was the stench of stale blood and the screams of agony from the adjacent interrogation rooms, and it would have been a mirror image of that field facility. The only real difference she could see between those sessions and her evaluation here was that the buff Russian that had done most of the interrogations when Stefanie had been called away was replaced by a stick-like 'psychiatric assessor'. Complete with a three-piece waistcoat suit, the thin-frame spectacles making him look even more pathetic than he already did. He definitely belonged behind a desk in some nine-to-five office, not trying to assess whether an operative- a living, breathing killing machine such as herself- was fit to be thrown back into the maelstrom that was her day job. He sat at one end of the desk, a small file open in front of him with his materiel.

"Now, Agent Price, we are going to do a simple word association. I will say a word, and I want you to reply with the first word that comes to mind." Chloe did her best to roll her eyes, subtly.  _Of all the fucking cliches they can bring out to play, they use this one._

"Shall we begin?" She gave him a blank stare, and she could see the nervous shift he made in his seat, as he cleared his throat.

"So, I might say darkness, and you would say...?"

"Light."

"Entrapment?"

"Employment." She replied with a smirk.

"Discarded?"

"Redundant."

"Confusion?"

"Orders." She said, with a wry grin.  _Might as well have a sense of humour about it, seeing as this is about as fun as having teeth pulled._

"Elimination?"

"Selection."

"Family?" She hesitated. The word hadn't struck a nerve whatsoever, not nearly as badly as it did the first time she had to take this infernal test, it was merely that she couldn't think of a word to fit. With the exception of her Dad, and perhaps her Mom before she met Colonel Moustache, she never really thought about her former family. It was one of the innumerable parts of her that had slowly faded into grey. Obscure, forgotten.

"Family?" The shrink asked again.

"Irrelevant." She deadpanned. The shrink stared at her, curiously, before attempting to continue with his feeble task.

"Love?" Chloe flinched slightly. That did hit at her slightly, seeing as the only love she had ever experienced had been laid to rest six, nearly seven years ago. Maintaining composure, she gave the most simple reply she could think of.

"Hatred."

The shrink closed the file in front of him, gave her a nervous smile, and bid her farewell as he left the room. She leaned back in the chair and sighed with some slight relief. The snippets of the KGB cells running through her mind hadn't made the task any more enjoyable, that much she was certain of.

* * *

 A cough in front of her startled her slightly, her attention refocused on the present. A young woman, definitely no older than herself. She gave her the same blank stare she was receiving as she recognised her, to her chagrin. Glancing from the floor up, she could already see that her unwelcome company was keeping up with the times as always: her footwear, a pair of heels, typical of the type Chloe knew weren't out of place in an Oxford Street shop window; the skirt, a touch above the knee, and about as form-fitting as a skirt could be made to be; the blouse, again, made to  _appear_ simple. Chloe knew just from looking at the collars poking out from beneath the grey sweater she was wearing that it probably cost as much as a month's pay for her. The sweater, too, while not being as tight-fitting as her skirt it still matched the styling, close enough in to her torso and chest to remain respectable and yet somewhat show off her body beneath. The only constant between the previous encounters Chloe had had with the woman and her current one was her hairstyle, slightly shorter in places than her own, yet styled strictly, almost as though it had been put in place by an architect. Not a single lock hung loose from behind her ears, nor did her fringe fall out of place across her forehead.

 _If I could find a fuck to give, I'm pretty sure I would be jealous. What I still wanna know is what she does here, other than maybe providing eye candy. Surely, she'd be a damnsight better off modelling for some high-end fashion designer, than being cooped up somewhere like this?_ As much as she had a hate-hate relationship with her counterpart, Chloe did have to concede, she was definitely a looker.

_Sure to damn I would go down on her, given the chance. Heh._

"Director Andrews is ready to see you, Agent Price." Chloe smiled back at her again.

"Ah, hello again Victoria. Still playing 'secretary on the boss', I see? Must be paying off if you can afford those kinda threads." The Brit scowled at her. Chloe smiled slightly, happy with her opening volley. No doubt her beloved  _Miss Chase_ would have picked up on the gossip that seemed to have found its way through the office.

"Very funny, Agent Price. Deviance may be legal here, but I'm pretty sure the Russians have something else to say about it, as do most people here. Especially their dominatrices, come to think of it." Chloe rolled her eyes as bluntly as she could, resisting the urge to reach out and knock that smug grin off her face. However, she simply stood up, seeing herself toward the office. 

"Sure thing, try telling that to Elton or Freddie. Oh, and let me know when you finally get a raise. Your act will sure pay off one day." Chloe replied, with a beaming grin and a wink at the further flustered and aggravated blonde, as she saw herself toward the oak door. She shook her shoulders off, and took a hold of the handle.

_Well, here we go. Time to ram my head down the lion's throat. Yippee._

Sure enough, Andrews was sat in his ever-expectant manner. If she didn't know better, she'd expect him to have a Persian cat on his lap, and for him to address her with a corny line like _"I've been expecting you, Miss Price."_   It would definitely have gone with the scar over his eye, that much was certain. To her disappointment, neither of these things happened.

"About damn time, Price. Take a seat." His gravelly tone always rubbed Chloe up the wrong way. Sure, it was probably a by-product of one of the various off-books places he had no doubt seen service in, sometime between the present day and 12 B.C., nevertheless she was sure he played on it. She set a hand on the old-English style chair, facing him, and clattered onto the chair. He shifted his position slightly, leaning back in the chair as opposed to his forward slouch as she came through the door, before beginning. Glancing over him once more, her mind cast back over him. He had been in service at least as long as Mark, and probably a little longer: as far as she knew,  _his_  sterling career started with the Chosin reservoir and had gone from there. SOG in Vietnam, operations in Iran and the Middle East, Libya... the list went on for pages, although most of those were covered in black ink. And probably  _hadn't_  been meant for her eyes. Not that it had stopped her.

"Now, I am aware that we don't see eye to eye on many things, especially in light of your past  _transgressions._ Prague, for one. Your recent run-in with the KGB, for another." Chloe fought the urge to groan with discontent.  _Fuuuck! He knows too!_ Andrews continued. "However, even I can't deny the fact that you're a damned good agent. Probably the best that we've got in-theatre right now. I understand that you're still recovering, and that the ink is barely dry on your clearance from Medical, but the task at hand is important."

Chloe stuck a hand up, cutting him off. "All due respect,  _sir_ , but can we just cut to the chase? Ma-Head Officer Jefferson already ran me up to speed a little bit on what you brought me back to this side of the Curtain for. Can we just cut the rhetoric a little?" He gave her a blank, mirthless look, before getting back on track.

"As you wish. So, what exactly do you know of the Red Deer?"  _Same question Mark asked. Same question that I don't really have an answer for._

"Not an awful lot. Other than that they're meant to be one of the best that the KGB have in Europe. No known identity, no D.O.B., nothing. We don't even know if the asshole is a man or a woman." She replied. Andrews smiled slightly, opening a draw on his side of the desk, and dropping a file in front of her.  She split off the red tape sealing it shut,  disseminating the plethora of photographs and reports. 

_They're a damn good shot, by the looks of it. No real trace, either: nobody seems to see them come or go. Probably native to East Germany, if I were to guess: the Reds aren't great at blending in. Sure as shit they're my equal, judging by this._

"Here's what we have currently. As my counterpart Mr. Jefferson no doubt explained, we needed you back because you're our  _best_ bet of dealing with the Deer. While you've been gone, they've been the prime suspect in no fewer than twelve assassinations. Low-level, mainly military commanders and local politicians. In the last twelve months, however, they've ramped up their activities. They moved on to higher profile targets: in September, she assassinated Levi Joncker, head of the Dutch Delegation to NATO. His briefcase, complete with access details and contingencies for Volkel- which, if you didn't know it already, is one of the few places on the Continent that we entrust with our tactical nuclear ordnance. Two weeks later, a pair of aircraft exploded on takeoff from there, and all the evidence points to sabotage. January, another hit. Lieutenant Colonel Jim Donnel, head of US Air Forces in Europe. A week later, they eliminate three defecting KGB operatives inside one of our own fucking safe-houses. I don't think I need to lecture you further, do I?" Chloe shook her head, slightly in awe at what the Deer had achieved in such a short space of time.

"No sir. What exactly do you want me to do, capture them?"

Andrews shook his head. "No. The Deer has been deemed too great a threat to even consider their capture. Your mission is to identify and locate the Deer, and put a stop to their activities. Permanently. Now, I know this is going to be a hell of a hard task, even for an accomplished agent such as yourself. Also, we owe the British Secret Service a few favours for helping to secure your release in the first place. As a result, you're going to be working alongside one of their better operatives. Operative Prescott is already boots-down in Berlin, and will update you on the state of play there when you arrive."

Chloe sighed.  _Of course, they would decide to give me that prick as back-up. Does anyone read my post-Op reports any more?_

Andrews picked up on her discord at his statement. "I understand, you and him don't like each other  _either._ However, Head Officer Jefferson assures me that Prescott is the best operative the British have available. You know as well as I do that he sees a lot of potential in his protege. I expect you to at least maintain a working relationship with him while you're out there. You're being put on a flight into Tempelhof later today. Again, I understand that you're barely up and running again, but time is of the essence. Right now, with everyone going on in the spotlight, any further actions like this by the Deer could well tip everything right over the edge. It goes without saying how that'll turn out in the current climate. Good luck." Chloe nodded, scooping up the file in one hand, before Andrews called after her again.

"One last thing. It's... in relation to what happened to your old man." Chloe stopped dead in her tracks, and turned to face him.

"Sir?"

Andrews glanced away from her, before continuing. "We... have reason to believe that the Deer was part of the team responsible for his death, as you'll see further back in the file. I... just want you to be aware of that. Just try and keep it professional out there. Don't make it personal, okay?"

Chloe's grip tightened around the file in her hand, as she nodded. "Of course, sir. Thank you." With that, she turned back and left swiftly.

* * *

Chloe didn't even notice or acknowledge Victoria on her way past the secretary's desk outside the office, much to the latter's confusion. She was enveloped entirely in her own thoughts, all spanning from that one trinket Andrews had given her. That the Deer had been involved in killing her father.

She found a quiet place in the building, secluded, away from anyone else, and slumped against a wall as the memories came back through her head.

**_The knock at the door. Her going to answer, her elation as she went for the handle, expecting it to be her father's usual theatrics. The confusion as she registers the figure on her doorstep, dressed in full ABPD uniform, tears in his eyes. How her world crumbled, evaporated into nothingness, every word after "he won't be coming home"._ **

**_A week later, halfway across the country in Arlington. Her jolting response at the crack of five rifles at once, an armed salute, as the autumn drizzle trickled down across the grounds. The water damping her hair, running down her face and mixing with the tears streaming down her face. The chill passing through her body almost completely unnoticed. A complete numbness as her hands made contact with the silk of the folded flag as it was handed to her._ **

**_The days, weeks, months that passed by that she couldn't recall, that were a grey blur to her._ **

A few minutes later, the torrent of memories she'd buried deeper than anything else finally washed over, leaving her sobbing. Gradually, the emotions were wiped away, instead replaced by a fire she hadn't experienced in years. 

 _When I get my fucking hands on them, they're going to fucking wish they'd never existed. Seven fucking years, I've longed every day to get an assignment like this. And now, now I get to go do it._ Through her seething anger, a grimace appeared. 

 _Better bring your fucking A-game, asshole, because there's gonna be no mercy from me._ With that, she dusted herself off, and headed back toward the room she'd been put up in. She got through the door, slamming it shut and throwing the file onto her desk. Reaching under the bed, she found her footlocker, complete with some of her personal effects (those that mattered to her, at the very least). Popping open the catches, she brushed a few of the documents aside to reveal a small gun case. Inside, her father's service pistol, left to her when she was old enough to handle it. The silver receiver was slightly dusty from years of being kept in storage for this specific task. Normally, her Beretta 418 would have sufficed for such an assignment. It was small enough to fit in the palm of her hand, making it perfect perfect for sneaking across the border, and with enough of a punch to take down anyone she encountered without body armor. This time, however, the gun lying in front of her was going to see her into the East. The Colt Commander was a .45, which she knew would almost definitely put her mark down. Sure, it was a hell of a lot larger than her Beretta, but the extra firepower was sure as hell going to make up for it. Besides that, there was the sentiment element: she figured it fitting that her father's gun be used to put down the assassin who killed him.

 _It isn't making it personal, anyway: they want the job done right, this is how I'll do it. Now, let's try and get to know them a little better. Not that it matters,_  She sat cross-legged on the bed, poring over the file in greater detail, her trusted armament by her side.

* * *

 

_Somewhere in East Berlin_

_July 3rd, 1987_

_2.44 am_

A whistle blow from a Vo-Po echoed down the otherwise silent street. A lone figure sprinted along through the rain, throwing swift shadows on the walls, desperately trying to outpace the crescendo of heavy boots chasing them. Behind them, three police officers, the beams from their torches flashing wildly and illuminating the surroundings as they continued in their efforts to run down the fugitive. She had barely had time to get some clothes on, barely had any notice of what was coming through her door. As it was she had had to jump out of her window and pray to God that she could hit one on the adjacent apartment block, rather than suffer a three-floor fall. It paid off, but it didn't buy her quite as much time as she hoped it would: as she came out of the front door of that adjacent block, the three officers who had kicked in her apartment door piled out into the street thirty meters away, the breathlessness of each disappearing in an instant as they reacquired their target.

"HALT!" The officer barked, unsheathing his Makarov as he ran, and firing as well as he could on the run. The rounds zipped along, chased by the sharp snap of their firing. she yelped as a round grazed her arm, tracing a red scorch mark along it, but she kept running. To stop would be to die, and she knew it. The street gave way to a bridge, spanning one of the various rivers that carved up the darkened city. A screeching of tires ahead, as a Lada in Volkspolizei colours cut the runner off, its body effectively blocking her route. The officers threw the doors open, pistols drawn and aiming as they took up position using the vehicle as cover. No doubt, they'd been briefed on who their suspect was, though apparently not well enough to know that half a dozen officers wouldn't be enough. She came to an abrupt halt, their escape cut off. One officer closed in, muzzle levelled as he closed in. She held her hands up as she backed toward the edge of the bridge. A warning shot hissed past, barely missing her ear.

"Beweg dich nicht! Halten Sie Ihre Hände hoch!" The officer who fired the shot barked, as another closed in, weapon raised and ready.

Three meters. Two. The figure moved like light as he came within reach, snapping the gun out of his hand and pulling him toward her so that the others couldn't get a clean shot. In the moment that they hesitated, she forced the gun against her shield's ribs, the bullet erupting from his back in a red spatter as his form became limp and lifeless. She threw him aside, dropping to one knee and levelling her aim at the closer of the two remaining officers. The gun snapped back in her hand as the bullet struck him in the chest, his shocked expression disappearing as the light was seemingly torn from his eyes. The barrel swung toward the second, who was just about to bring his aim to bear. Another snap, As the bullet struck him in the side of the temple and burrowed through his skull. He spun slightly as he collapsed onto the floor. She shot a glance in the direction she had run from, barely being missed by a volley of gunshots. One clipped her thigh, eliciting a further cry of pain, as she threw the gun across the road. Without caring to look, she threw herself over the side, into the cold, black, shimmering expanse below. Torches scoured the surface for a few minutes, fruitlessly attempting to reacquire their target. 

Some distance downstream, the fugitive dragged herself onto a river beach, coughing and retching up water that she had sucked down involuntarily. Summertime or not, the river was still bitterly cold. She sat up against some piece or another of discarded detritus, perhaps a relic from the previous war. She grimaced, though the irony was definitely not lost on her.

 _An old, discarded item, no longer needed. Welcome to the club, I suppose._  The questions begun to run rampant in her head. Why had the police come after her? Surely they knew who she was and who she worked for? Then it hit her.

 _But why? What did I do? I've done everything they asked of me, and this is what happens? Why do they want me dead all of a sudden?_ She stood up, dusting some of the sand that had stuck to the backs of her legs off. 

 _Only one way to find out._ She grunted with pain as she attempted to walk onward, and a hand to her torso revealed why. She wiped the blood off her hand, shaking her head.

 _Of course that would have to happen to me too. Must've been a ricochet for it not to have killed me outright._ She huffed a slight chuckle to herself.  _Vo-Pos really can't shoot straight if they tried. No doubt the_   _Volksarmee will be on their way._  She glanced up from the serenity of the dark riverbank and along the skyline, taking note of its brighter and more vibrant appearance. _Still, it would seem I'm no longer on their side of the wall, so that should buy me time._  

Twenty minutes later, she had found her way back up to street level, albeit via a drainage duct. She retched slightly at the stench that followed her out of the duct.  _This fucking day just keeps getting better and better._  A few police cars passed her by, not that it bothered her. The _Schupos_ had no reason to pick her up, and even if they did, she was certain that the West still knew nothing of what she even looked like. As it was, her hair was matted and feral, her clothes grimy and battered from her fight through the narrow pipes. Shambling along the empty shopping district, she glanced at herself in the reflection of a shop window. _I look like the homeless. Although, for once, I think that might actually work out in my favour. Nobody would suspect a gutter whore of being the KGB's golden girl._ She grimaced as the details continued to seep into her thoughts.  _Ex_ _-Golden Girl. God, I want to find who did this to me. I don't think there's much I can do to make them suffer enough, as repayment for even the last hour. I don't even know how they could bring everything down so fast, unless..._ She shuddered.  _Unless this was their plan, all along._

Finding an alleyway to hide in for the night, she curled up between a pair of dumpsters, and force herself to sleep. 

_With any luck, I can make one of the safe-houses around here. Given a miracle, it might actually be empty, although it won't matter. Three dead cops and a big 'rogue agent' sticker next to my name will be enough to have every agent in the Committee scouring the city for me, and I doubt they'll be interested in a drink and a chat. And then, to work._

Still shivering slightly from a mixture of surgical shock and the cold permeating her clothes, she pulled an off-cut of material out of the dumpster next to her, wrapping it tightly around herself as she screwed her eyes shut and attempted to get some sleep amid the whirlwind of questions left unanswered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so the prefacing AN was written before I got back to work. It's a solid 90 minutes each way and I get up at 04.55 to get to work, so the odds of me doing much writing during the week from now on aren't great. Mainly because I'll be half asleep most of the time. The journey back, depending on how flat-out dead I am by shift's end, could be an entirely different barrel of monkeys. And given that I'm writing the finishing touches of this on a sick day, having been barely functioning for the last couple of days, I'm definitely going to have to prioritise the job over other commitments. Hopefully this chapter is alright, as far as the sequencing in my head was concerned it seemed to work. There's a few scenes I would expand a little but I can't think of how to do it without it seeming overdrawn.
> 
> However I'll try to keep some level of work on this and _What The Future Holds_ on the go. Likelihood is my writing will be confined to weekends only, or put on hold depending on how many assignments I land with.  
>  Until next time, whenever the hell that ends up being...
> 
> Also, let me know if I've made any major grammatical errors, I've done my best to proofread but no doubt something will have slipped the net.
> 
> P.S. I put this chapter up a few hours ago but had it set to January 12 2018 instead of 2019. Apparently, my brain is still in last year >_<


	5. Back to Berlin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chloe returns to the City of Spies and is brought- dragged- up to speed by her unwilling partner.
> 
> Meanwhile, the Deer continues to evade her former masters, encountering a familiar flame along the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You'll notice that some of the dates do become a little disjointed between the two sides of the story for now. That is deliberate, as the Deer's side of events is taking place at a moderately different time to that of Chloe's, initially. 
> 
> I've got some fun plans for directions this story will take eventually, some real _Mission: Impossible_ stuff. As in, the '96 film. Oh, it's gonna get good.
> 
> That being said, I've got the finale of _What the Future Holds_ Act I to write too.

_2nd July, 1987_

_RAF Lakenheath_

_22.05 Local Time_

Chloe cursed as she stepped out of the station runabout, a battered Land Rover of some kind or another in the usual olive drab and wrapped her better shoulder around the handle of her holdall. She was supposed to have been on the plane out last night, but as her usual luck would have it, the train she was supposed to be getting aboard had been cancelled. So, the Tri-Star headed out there had left without her. She shifted uncomfortably, the uniform she had to wear on these bases was definitely not made for comfort. However, she was glad enough that she'd not been forced into wearing the issued skirt with the already uncomfortable clothing. She did like the colour- a dark blue with very little in the way of complexities- however, and unlike the Army or Navy equivalents that she had seen for a woman of her size and build, the dress uniform she was wearing actually fit her reasonably well.

 _Just my fucking luck. Most important task I've ever been given, and what happens? The fucking trains go on strike. Pricks._ A slight chuckle to herself.  _I can almost see the sense in how the fucking Commies do things: go on strike, and you get thrown in prison. I wouldn't complain about that, much. Then again my working standards aren't exactly the same as a nine-to-fiver's._

She had walked about ten paces when a lieutenant, likely one of the base commander's underlings, intercepted her. He saluted sharply, almost robotically.

"Major Price, good to have you here, brief as it may be."

She returned the salute, grimacing slightly as she jarred her still-sore right hand off the lip of her combination cap.

"Lieutenant. I take it Colonel Ackerley has already read you into what you need to know?"

The Lieutenant- Gastovski, as far she she could make out his name tab in the dim, drizzly street- nodded.

"Yes Ma'am. If you'll follow me, I'll take you to the aircraft." He extended a hand, toward the holdall. "May I carry that for you, Ma'am?"

Chloe shook her head. "No thank you, Lieutenant. I've got it." Gastovski nodded, turning on his heel and walking in the direction of the hangars. Chloe followed. As they rounded the edge of the hangar, Chloe paled a little as she saw the aircraft that was  _supposed_ to take her to Berlin. A Hercules, probably one that had been to Vietnam and back via the Middle East, if she knew foreign policy as well as she did.

 _Ah, fuck me. There goes my plan for a pleasant flight._  She gulped, nervously, an action made slightly harder by the tight neck and collar on the formal jacket as the memories begun to reconvene in the back of her mind. Gastovski noticed.

"Everything alright, Ma'am?"

Chloe nodded, slightly shakily. "Uh, yes. Perfectly fine Lieutenant, thank you."

Saluting once more, Gastovski parted her company. Slightly uneasy as she walked,  she made her way to the loading ramp. The cargo bay was relatively busy, at least two dozen men on board-  _grunts galore, just what I need_ \- but there was a section of the netting-based seats free, large enough for her to lie down. She stepped up the steel walkway and slung her baggage under her spot. The ramp slowly sealed shut with a loud whirring. She grimaced, though not at her company.

 _Why does it have to be_ THIS  _kind of fucking aircraft? Are people's memories really as short as that?_

She noticed one of the soldiers on board, cocky-looking at that, had shifted a little closer to her. Obviously being goaded onward by his friends, who she could make out snickering away behind him in the darkness.

"Good evening Ma'am. Are you... afraid of flying, at all?"

She stared at him, blankly. "What do you think, First Sergeant?"

Struggling to suppress a small smile, he answered. "You look a little scared to me. Would you like me to, ah, give you a little in-flight safety brief?"

Chloe sighed, rolling her eyes. "Not particularly, First Sergeant. And, unless you want me to hand you your ass AND have you busted back to a fucking Corporal's stripes, I would  _strongly_ advise you to sit your ass back over with those reprobates you seem to call friends, and not bother me again. Understood?" She growled at him, her eyes betraying the slightest hint of the fury she was ready to let loose on him.

The soldier blinked at her, taken aback, before replying in a stammering tone. "U-uh, yes, yes Ma'am. Understood Ma'am." She stumbled back across to join his compatriots. Chloe smiled, grimly, as she lay down on the seat. By now, the aircraft had gotten up to speed and was cruising along slowly, although there was a deafening drone from the four turboprops outside the windows. The weather over toward the coast wasn't particularly pleasant, quite the opposite. The storm jostled the aircraft around, pitching and rolling it slightly as it went. Chloe shivered, in fear more than anything else, as she closed her eyes and attempted to sleep. Once again, just as she had feared, the nightmares begun once more.

* * *

_Five years earlier..._

_February 1982_

_Somewhere over Norway_

Chloe clutched at her arms, shivering frantically as the lumbering aircraft made its way through the frigid skies. It appeared to her that the aircrew had forgotten entirely where the breakers were for the cargo hold heaters- assuming the flying junkyard of a plane she was being transported in  _had_ heaters.

_I'm pretty sure they treat CONVICTS better than this. At least Con Air has proper seats, not these stupid netting things that freeze your ass numb. Oh, and I'll bet it's quieter. I mean, they give normal troops two sets of ear defence on a piece of crap like this- I guess we're just not important enough to be given those. We, obviously, can afford to be given semi-permanent hearing loss. Heh. Then again, these are the same smart-asses that thought training me in Arctic survival was useful. I'm being deployed TO BERLIN. The only way that fucking training becomes useful is if we have a nuclear winter. And guess what? If that happens, then being able to deal with the cold will be pretty low on my fucking priorities list._

She spared a moment from her personal misery to glance at the other passengers on the flight over the top of the pallets of cargo in the hold-no doubt supplies of some kind or other- and unlike her, they had actually been issued appropriate clothing for the task at hand. For whatever reason, the Agency hadn't bothered to kit her out with any arctic clothing, so she had improvised as best she could: a pair of Gore-Tex boots that had done her well, at least in the cold that was the Northern states in winter; a set of hiking trousers made for mountain hiking, made of a heavier material than usual, with thermals underneath that; and as many layers as she could cram under her padded jacket. A black beanie on top and a pair of black skiing gloves rounded out her attempt to stay warm, albeit that it hadn't been as successful as she'd hoped.

As best she could make out from the insignia on the winterised uniforms of the troops sat opposite her, they were attached to Rapid Deployment Force. The usual tool of Congress when some country or another needed an overnight dose of democracy, she'd mused. She'd already tried asking them why they were being sent to Norway of all places, though she already knew the answer she was going to get.

"Classified. Sorry, miss."

She turned her head to glance out of the window. Snow, sky, snow... very little to see. It seemed like they were flying through a fucking blizzard. Which, to be honest, was likely the case. The drone of the engines was deafening her, compounded by a lack of ear defenders. She'd tried the set on that she had been given before takeoff, but they were about as comfortable as strapping a pair of freezing steel pans over her ears. That, and they seemed to make the horrendous noise of the plane even worse. In the end, she'd opted to suffer the droning for the next however-long the flight was due to take.

That was the last moment of normalcy she could remember there being on that flight. There was no warning. Her memory of what happened next came in broken sections. It must've been over in a matter of seconds.

* * *

The screeching as the floor of the cargo bay was torn open, by what looked like a tree. A panicked glance out of the window- the inboard engine was alight, there was fuel leaking perilously close by, the ground was rotating- no, the  _plane_ was rolling over on its side. A loud bang, like someone hammering a baseball bat against a car door. The wing in front of her eyes was torn away by a tree, its torn root belching flames. The bay came apart, scattering the cargo. The far wall, and the troops sat against it, broke away. A chunk of the roof, overhead. A sudden force, throwing her violently in one direction or another, the flash of snow covered tree canopies before her eyes.

Blackness.

* * *

Chloe was roused to consciousness by the screaming, burning pain in her body. It felt as though it was in every part of her body, arms, legs, chest, back. Slowly, she opened her eyes, releasing a pained howl in response to what could easily have been every nerve ending screaming out. There was little around her to indicate an aircraft had even been here, save for a few fragments of metal strewn about and the smouldering of a few tree limbs, savagely torn off by the hulk of metal that had hit them. The plane's carcass, what was left of it, had evidently carved a path through the forested area, burrowing a gash several feet deep into the snow and frozen ground and uprooting most of the trees in its path. Her head spun as she sat up, placing a foot against the ground. She went to stand up, only to collapse onto her back, an agony like none she remembered punching up through her leg, rousing another guttural scream of pain. She lifted her head, just able to see the problem. Her left thigh had a gash down it, at least several inches in length. The blackened, congealed blood on the surface reassured her that it was no longer a danger to her. Her ankle was askew, however. She grimaced, cursing in her mind.

_Broken. Fuck, now what do I do? If I stay here, I'll freeze to death. I know enough about this shit to know that it's bad if you can't feel the cold._

She scanned the ground around her for something, anything, that she could make use of. A piece of bloodstained material, a reasonable size at that, lay a few feet away. 

 _There's enough bits of wood lying around. I could tie them against my ankle with that. Not exactly first-class medicine, but right now, I can make do with it. If I can just..._  

She dragged herself across the floor, crying out in pain at every jolt of her ankle, every time her leg brushed against the floor. It took her what felt like an eternity. Every movement took more energy than she expected, and she could feel herself becoming gradually more light-headed. Eventually, she was close enough to grab it. Turning it over in her hands, its origin dawned on her.

 _Wait a sec, that's..._ She felt around the side of her torso, wincing as her cold fingers contacted a tender part of her skin. She looked down again, to find a section of her jacket was missing, and that her torso was cut open in several places, some lengths of the cut still oozing blood slightly. She shook her head.

 _I am SO fucked. Do I actually have any chance of surviving right now, or am I just delaying the Reaper like I did in Boise?_ Shrugging off the thought as best she could, she forced a couple of lengths of wood down the sides of her boots- biting down on her jacket collar to try and help her ignore the pain. Finally, the pieces were in place. With shaking hands, she wrapped the material around her ankle. Another pained scream as she tightened the knot against her leg, against another wound she hadn't noticed. Carefully standing up on her solid leg. Glancing in both directions that the forest had been torn open by the remains of the hull as it came down.

 _It looks like what's left went that way. My odds aren't great, but it's better than staying here. I hope. I just hope it didn't go far._ Shuffling a couple of steps, she stubbed her foot on another length of wood.  _Ow, fuck. Wait, that's actually a decent length. Least I'll have something to put my weight onto._ Slotting it under her arm, she set off once more, able to move slightly comfortably than before as she picked her way through the mixture of broken tree limbs and fragments of airframe.

Some time later, Chloe had reached a clearing of sorts. There was a large section of the shattered craft nearby, and a few of the packages being carried aboard it, their contents strewn across the blackened snow and ice. She must've been out a while, as some of the items had been partially covered over by the light snow that was still drifting down. She tripped over an object, bulging slightly below the surface, and hit the ground hard with another outcry of pain. Looking back, her eyes widened in shock as she saw what had been uncovered under the snow: an arm. Allowing curiosity to get the better of her, she shuffled across and uncovered more of the figure lying lifeless. Torso, neck... she jumped back somewhat as she uncovered the soldier's face, or what was left of it. One eye hung loosely out of its socket, albeit white with frost, and a chunk of his skull appeared to be missing. Were it not for the snow layered over the top, there would probably have been blood sprayed everywhere. A burst of nausea shot through her and she fought the urge to retch. Her eyes cast over the rest of his torso, however, trying her best not to look at the gruesome damage to his head.

 _It's a shitty thing to do, but needs must. That jacket is probably better than anything I have right now. Sorry, dude, but you don't exactly need it any more._ Trying to keep her eyes away from his shattered head once more, she undid the winter fatigue jacket that the cadaver was wearing, wrapping is over herself as she sat. It was a few sizes too large for her, but it was still better than not having it. She got back on her feet, continuing to shamble in the direction of a section of wreckage a little ways away. Eventually, she reached it, collapsing onto the now-cold steel that had made up part of the cargo bay. Fighting the urge to go to sleep, she tried to get her priorities straight.

 _Sh...shelter. I need...to make...make a shelter...fuck, the cold..._ Her body had ceased shivering some time ago, and even in her confused state, she was vaguely aware of the severity of her situation. There was a partly collapsed section of the hull up ahead, which looked big enough for her to fit into, as well as some scattered debris that she could use to keep the wind out. Some of the skin of the bay was missing, making the insulation accessible too. Chloe set to work as best she could on jury-rigging a small shelter in the section, barely able to think clearly. Her attention finally turned to the remnants of one of the sledded packages, still partially intact in the bay. Barely able to pull aside the torn netting that bound the package together, a few of the boxes held within fell out, landing on her toes. Not that she felt it, especially as any pain was overwritten by the joy of what she had found.

 _MREs, and a fuckton of them. Jesus, those guys...really were going to go... go cause trouble. And is that... shit, a Tac-Be. Ho...holy fuck! I might actually...live through this... after..._ her head spun as she collapsed once more onto the floor. A further attempt to stand found her legs unwilling to support her, on account of the tattered state of her left leg, and the cold that threatened to shut her body down. Frantically and clumsily tearing open one of the cardboard boxes with a shard of metal, cutting her hand in a few places as she did, she retrieved a flameless ration heater from within and shoved a few handfuls of snow into it, yelping at the sudden burst of warmth she could feel as the water contacting the pack inside reacted. Shaking profusely once more, she forced the plastic down her jacket, groaning as the heat permeated through her. A few tears rolled down her cheek, burning as the trails froze slightly on her paled, ice-cold skin. Another search of the eviscerated box revealed a few snacks, easy enough to open. She gratefully forced them into her system, as she consolidated her plan for the night.

 

A few hours later, as darkness crept in, Chloe pulled the piece of metal she'd found as a makeshift door over her shelter, breaking open and shaking a couple of red cyalume sticks to provide a small modicum of light within. She reached over for the small orange box that was the Tac-Be system, leaving it switched on and on the open frequency setting. She didn't know how long the batteries would last, but for the first time so far today, she wasn't scared- as normalcy had returned to her body, she had been able to better search that pallet in the cargo bay and had retrieved a few more batteries, as well as further rations and spare heaters. There was some fuel cans, too. Likely for one of the light snowmobiles that had been in the bay. While there was no sign of those snowmobiles- and no doubt they would be smashed to bits even if she found one- the fuel itself, she'd figured, could still be of use.

Wrapping herself up as best she could in some of the insulation she'd manage to pull from one of the various holes in the fuselage, and still shivering slightly, she closed her eyes and tried her hardest to go to sleep.

* * *

A crackling radio roused her from her broken slumber, to find daylight seeping in through the cracks in her shelter.

_"2...0...7... acknowledge, over."_

_"Any active callsigns in the area, this is Victor 2-0-7, please acknowledge, over."_

Chloe reached for the radio, fumbling as she found the push actuator.

"Uh...2-0-7, come in, over." She shakily muttered. Silence for a few moments.

 The radio crackled back into life.

_"This is a secure military channel. Identify yourself or clear the channel. We are tracing this transmission as we speak."_

Chloe cursed off-air, trying to remember her designation through a still-fogged and part-frozen mind.

"This is... Asset 1-9-0... Whiskey, Operative Price. Over." More silence.

_"Okay, that checks out. Jesus, we thought nobody had survived that wreck. Radio compass shows you about four miles out. Is there anyone else with you? Over."_

Chloe shuddered at the thought of the corpse she had de-jacketed outside, likely frozen solid by now. "I...I think I'm all that's left."

_"Understood, sorry to hear it kid. We're homing in on you now. Can you give us any idea where you are?"_

"I'...I'm in a section...of wreckage. In a clearing, I think?"

_"Uh, roger, we can see it now. Jesus, that's some wreck. Hang on, we're going to drop a PJ and Recovery System in, stand by."_

Chloe pushed aside the makeshift door, staggering to the open side of the hull in time to hear a droning, a steady crescendo toward a deafening roar. Another Hercules passed overhead, a few hundred feet above her, one of its side jump doors open. Its front had a strange pair of metal extrusions, like antennae or scaffolding. Chloe swore she recognised it from somewhere, but in her current state she wasn't certain where from. A red package was tossed out on a static line, followed by what appeared to be a man, distinguishable by the orange jacket he was wearing. She limped in the direction of his landing site, making it within about a hundred meters before her legs gave out. The orange-clad man approached, features growing more and more distinct as he did. He knelt down by her as he reached her.

"Operative Price?"

Overwhelmed, Chloe could do little more than nod. He picked her somewhat broken and diminished form up, as gently as he could, and carried her to the still-flapping chute denoting the package dropped in with him. He tore open the zip to reveal what looked like a big orange weather balloon, a length of steel wire, and a pair of harnesses. Chloe recognised it, albeit barely.

_A Fulton Harness. Jesus, I remember the training reels on these! Wait, THIS is how they're getting us outta here?!_

All the while, the Parajump Rescuer carefully fitted her with a harness, trying to calm her as he inadvertently jarred her busted leg, or caught one of the various other injuries on her body. He fitted a similar harness to himself, clipping both to anchoring points on the line before inflating the balloon. Its orange form gracefully ascended, up and up. Chloe heard the man talking the aircraft back around. He passed her a helmet and goggles, and explained what was about to happen.

"Alright, the aircraft is going to swing back and pick us up on the Fulton system! Are you familiar with how this works, or would you like me to explain it?"

Chloe shook her head. Her head felt a lit clearer now, she'd realised in retrospect that it was on account of the copious amounts of adrenaline that had been put into her system as her brain registered what was about to happen. "No, I kinda know how it works. Never used it though. Anything I should know?"

The PJ gave a light chuckle, as a faint droning returned to earshot. "Yeah. Hold on tight. Just like a fairground ride. Oh, and don't forget to use your goggles." The grey steel of the Hercules reappeared, flying a little lower than before. It aimed straight at the cable, hitting is directly. The balloon cast off, floating away of its own free will. The cable caught on the aircraft, down the underside of its hull.

"Here we go! Yee-ha!" Before Chloe could answer, she felt the harness tighten suddenly around her legs and underarms, and the cable snap taut. Without warning, she and her rescuer were plucked from the snowy terrain, almost straight up and at a barely-believable speed. She glanced up, her face battered by the frigid air rushing by. The cable had been fastened to some kind of winch on the aircraft, pulling the two of them in, slowly and surely.

Three hundred feet. Two hundred. A hundred. 

Eventually, they were close enough for the two men on the back ramp to pull them aboard. Chloe remembered little after hitting the floor of the aircraft, her vision fading to white. The next thing she knew, she was in hospital in Copenhagen.

* * *

A jolt startled her awake, to see the glistening lights of a city out of one side of the aircraft. 

_Thank fuck we're here. I'm just amazed that this fucker actually made it._

A few minutes later, the aircraft had roughly landed at Tempelhof. Despite having been here countless times, she couldn't help herself but marvel at the architecture and design of the terminal itself. For all their dark deeds, she had often mused, the Reich had definitely known a thing or two about showing off with buildings. 

"Miss Price." An English voice, Midlands by the sound of it, startled her. It didn't take her all that long to remember the face that was attached to that voice, and she cursed internally. She turned to face the source, and the face that greeted her-with its usual cold reception- confirmed her fears. The piercing blue eyes staring back at her told her exactly who had been told to greet her.

"Mr Prescott. How nice to see you again."

Nathan snorted, knowing the falsehood of her statement. "Yeah, yeah. I read the reports too. Something about 'Operative shows signs of mental instability, not recommended for future operations.' Sound familiar?"

Chloe glowered back at him. "Yeah, matter of fact I do. Next time you want to make a point, do it in some way that  _doesn't_ involve sticking the muzzle of your beloved fucking nine-millimeter in my face." Nathan opened his mouth to respond, but Chloe cut him off. "Now, are we going to stand here arguing over the fact that you are a fucking screw loose, or are you going to get me briefed up so we can go back to whatever the fuck we were doing as part of this assignment?"

Nathan bared his teeth at her, pushing a file roughly into her chest. "There's what we've got. Car's this way." A slight chuckle under his breath. "Now, we going straight there or would you like to visit the brothels first?" 

Chloe rolled her eyes at his snickering, instead realising an even better means of getting her own back- or, possibly shot, as she had found out once before. Putting on her best impression of an old English Squire and a theatrical rolling of the hand she replied. 

"Why yes, m'Lord, our abode is a very prudent suggestion." She was sure she heard him go for his gun, but she never felt it pressed against her body so she assumed he hadn't been quite that stupid.

* * *

  _3rd July 1987_

_Tempelhof District, Berlin_

_01.20 Local Time_

Half an hour later, they had reached the safehouse that was to be their basing site for the operation. It was a simple enough place, not dissimilar from your average civilian residence on the exterior, or at a first glance inside. However, Chloe knew from experience just how much gear was hidden in just  _one_ safehouse. She dropped the file on the bare table, awaiting Nathan- still seething from earlier- to return from whatever he'd gone to do. Soon enough, he returned. He appeared calmer, however Chloe could still make out that ever-so-faint glow of rage in the back of his eyes.

"So, what did I miss while I was enjoying the Hotel Bautzen?" Chloe enquired. 

Taking a deep breath, an apparent attempt to calm himself further, he begun.

"Alright. Alright. So, we're still no closer to getting a PID on the Deer, but we have a few potential leads. One is Walter Mayer- former KGB, defected last year- who we know worked as the Deer's case handler on several occasions. He's currently our best bet if we wanna track down this fucker and put 'em in the ground, permanently. Best off starting with him." Another curt huff.

"There. That enough for you to go out, and get out of my fucking life, Price?"

Chloe gave him a half-smile, conjuring her next line. "You mean to say that in fifteen months, that is all we have in the way of leads?" 

Nathan narrowed his eyes at her. "The fuck do you mean by that, eh?"

Chloe turned her palms upward, gesturing as though to calm him. "Hey, cool the fuck down. It's just bugging me, fifteen months and we only have maybe three possible leads. Damn, this fucker is good."

Nathan grimaced, equal parts irked and amused. "Well, you went and landed yourself in the shit by becoming the best agent this side of the fuckin' curtain. Bet you don't feel so smug now, eh?"

Chloe shot him a sly, part-smug look, hiding as best she could the immeasurable nerves this whole setup was giving her.

"Smug enough. Sadly for you, I think I'm gonna crash here tonight. It's been a long enough day, thank you. You can take the couch." She blew him a kiss, finishing it with a bird, as she walked toward the bedroom. Once he was sure that she was out of earshot- or, perhaps, asleep- he muttered to himself.

"Why the fuck do I get assigned with this fucking pain in the arse again? I thought my luck was bad enough as it is. Fuck."

* * *

_3rd July, 1987_

_Moabit District, Berlin_  

_22.35 local time_

The Deer had been perched on the fire escape adjacent to the safehouse she was casing out for hours. The one she had hit earlier had been useful, once she'd- cleared- it of any other agents. Cleared being her way of describing broadly her actions. Three first-rate KGB operatives, two of which she'd seen at work first hand, and she had taken all of them. Whilst battered to hell and with a gunshot wound, albeit minor by her own assessment. She'd only been able to stay there for an hour or two, however: the  _Schupos_ were bound to come knocking about the disturbances that had happened at five in the morning, but once more her-former- employers beat them to the punch. At any rate, that's how she'd interpreted the chatter of a Kalashnikov being used as a makeshift key. She hadn't waited around to confirm her theory, however.

Most of the rest of the day was spent consolidating what little she had. A few hundred bucks that she'd looted from the dead agents, a new handgun and a couple of magazines. That, and being clean with a fresh set of clothes. She hadn't tried hitting any of the other safehouses up to now, the rest looked to be full of operatives just waiting for her. All armed as though they were headed to Kabul. She gave those a miss, no real point in taking that kind of firepower on in her current state.

That, eventually, led her to this safehouse. Most operatives avoided it, ever since a previous raid by the West German counter-terror guys, many agents had seen it as an unlucky safehouse. Cursed, even. That's why she'd saved this one for last, she figured that this would be her best bet as a last resort. She wasn't superstitious like the others, however: her more practical reasoning was that this place was barely stocked with food and medical supplies, and the utilities could be rivalled by some of the lesser gulags she knew of. That, and this was the haven that she had the most confidence in being empty. She'd lost count of how many hours she had spent staring in, seeing nothing but the darkened room. No agent she could think of had the patience to stake a place out this long, lying in wait.

After the numerous hours silently staring inside, watching for movement, she slowly stood back up. Placing a foot on the escape's guard rail, she leapt the five feet or so across to the adjacent gantry, putting her outside the window. Even though the raid had been years ago, you could still vaguely smell the round propellant ingrained into the wood. Drawing a small knife, she slipped it into the gap between the window and the base of the sill, feeling for the latch. Resistance, followed by a click. She smiled to herself as she sheathed the blade and slid the window up, gently and quietly. Once the gap was large enough, she slipped inside, pulling the window shut behind her. The moment the base of the window met the sill, she heard another click behind her. She knew what that was without looking.

_There was one in here, der penner! It was good while it lasted._

Steeling herself against the inevitable, she spoke, back still to her would-be executioner.

"If you're here to kill me, get it over with already. No point waiting around." 

Another click, and the sound of clothing moving as the weapon was holstered. A slight clacking of heels on the floor, as the other occupant of the room moved closer to her.

"Now why would I want to kill my little  _lisenok_ , tell me?"

Max's heart leapt as she recognised the soft tone of her company, turning round to face her in the dark. "Stef?"

A delighted chuckle. "But of course, Maxine! Who else would willingly pick  _der Tuefelhof_? Except for you, evidently." 

Max didn't hold back, practically collapsing onto Stef, hugging her tightly. "I don't know what's happening. They came for me in the night. I ended up shooting a few  _Vo-Pos,_ they would've killed me otherwise. Why did they come for me, though?"

Stef was silent for a moment or two, Max knew from experience why. Trying to figure out the best wording.

"They alleged that you killed the Chairman of the Directorate, one of them anyway. I'm not stupid enough to believe them."

Max smiled, looking up into the pale blue eyes of her embrace. "How were you sure though? Surely they pinned all kinds of evidence on me?"

Stef purred. "Naturally. But I still knew you couldn't have done it. I don't even know what the _duncauf_ looked like and I worked for him, so there's not a chance in hell you did. I take it you're staying a little while?"

Max nodded. "Yes. I'm absolutely  _völlig im Arsch,_ and I have a few bulletholes to patch. I take it you'll have to report in?"

Another subtle chuckle from Stef. "Wait till I get my hands on those fucks, shooting my Maxine! And what exactly am I supposed to report about, an empty safehouse? Yes, I fear I have to do that though. I'll be back in an hour or two. If you leave before then, make sure to clean up as best you can and put anything you use in one of the garbage bags under the sink. It just makes it a little easier for me to make it look like this place was never used." She leaned her head down, placing her lips on Max's and sharing a soft, gentle kiss. A few moments later, they released one another.

"Now, you rest, my little  _lisenok._ You've had a terrible day." Max winced, groaning.

"Stef, you've got to stop calling me that, seriously!"

An almost disappointed sigh from Stef. "Why would that be?"

Max averted her gaze, blushing slightly. "Because every time one of those other  _Dössbaddel_ overhears it, they think it's funny to use it. And then I have to break their fingers, so guess who ends up getting into trouble?" She turned a finger to point at herself.

Stef pouted, jokingly. "Leck mich,  _lisenok._ "

Max glared back at her, equally playfully. "Don't tempt me."

Stef turned, and walked to the door. "I'll lock it behind me. If you have to go, let yourself back out the window. Probably safest. Tschuß, Maxine!" Stef called out softly as she closed the door of the small apartment behind her. Max flopped down on the chair, a slight tear of joy in her eye.

"It's just Max, Stef." She whispered to herself, as she considered removing the bullet still lodged in her thigh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **TRANSLATIONS:**  
>  Schupo: (GER) Nickname for West German (FDR) Police  
> der penner: (GER) "the f**ker!"  
> Lisenok: (RUS) "fox/ fox cub"  
> "Der Tuefelhof": (GER) "the devil-house" [may not be gramatically correct]  
> duncauf: :(GER) idiot, moron  
> vollig im arsch: (GER) "Knackered"/worn out  
> Dössbaddel:(GER) idiot, "dim-wit"  
> Leck mich: (GER) "bite me"  
> So, that brings us to the end of Act I. Things are going to start to move along a little bit more in-line from here, and I just hope you look forward to it. If I made any major mistakes with the German phrases in here, those of you who are native speakers, I always welcome the corrections. 'Lisenok'is Russian, by the way. Means "Fox Cub" as far as I know. Kinda like how Ivan calls Victoria "Bunny" in the film _R.E.D _.__  
>  There's a bit of an easter egg thrown in from another game franchise. Anyone who played the older tactical shooters- Op Flashpoint specifically- may have noticed it. (Yes, there is a reason why, at Lakenheath, the Lieutenant's name is mentioned ;) )
> 
>  
> 
> Now, the part set in Norway 1982 could be a little bit of a stretch in reality. I'm not Bear Grylls or any kind of survival expert, so I don't know whether the conditions I came up with would be survivable if you did what I've written Chloe to have done. I know that everything seemed to be 'conveniently' in her favour post-crash, but there are two reasons for that: one, if those things weren't there, she'd stand little to no chance of surviving even a few hours in that environment, especially in her condition; two, the aircraft is implied to be headed out on a Deniable Op as well as taking Chloe for training, hence it would have the supplies needed for the troops to achieve their aim.  
>    
> Also, the Fulton Harness is a real thing: it was a 50's concept for operative recovery that was still in use in the 1980s, and was discontinued in 1996. It's similar to what is used in MGS (if you've played it), although that system is a lot less realistic in its portrayal, and in Thunderball (1965 Bond film). It was the perfect idea in my mind, just on how the whole scene clipped together.  
>    
> Oh, and you didn't misread that: Stef and Max _are_ \- or were- in a platonic, and possibly carnal relationship. GingField, anyone? I think- at least within this AU- they could make a cute couple. Chloe and Steph in their Canon personalities would probably make for an equally cute couple I will say.  
>    
> And yes, I am probably going to have segments which better reveal Chloe's past to help give a better background. MayEastRise, you definitely made a good call suggesting that! (Max is also going to have a few, though those are definitely integral to the storytelling).  
>    
> This chapter coulda been out yesterday but I wasn't in a writing mood. Between the stench going through one of the towns on the train to work and what I can only surmise was a panic attack, I wasn't in the frame of mind to write...  
> Tschuß!  
> 


	6. The Sins of our Fathers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chloe pursues her first lead on the _Deer_ , discovering some of the darker secrets of their past as the latter attempts to intervene.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah. We're finally going to get a bit more of a glimpse into Max's past, and I must admit I've had the basic frame of her back-story in my head since the first words got put to paper nearly four months ago. I'll admit to some level of inspiration from Goldeneye (the '95 Bond film, not the mess that was the reboot games more recently) in terms of shaping it. It just felt... right, in so many ways.
> 
> I've been trying to get this chapter written all week. Easier said than done with the pitiful data signal I've had on the commute (yeah, Vodafone obviously forgot my county exist, ha ha.).
> 
> Some bits are a bit lengthy here, but they had to be to make everything click properly. Hope you enjoy and find it worth the wait.

_4th July, 1987_

_Moabit District, Berlin_

_6.20 am_

Max stirred with a groan, the product of soreness from her injuries and an unsatisfying sleep on the hard mattress. The first rays of sunlight had already begun penetrating the window, and it appeared by the dishes in the decrepit sink that her paramour had left some time ago. Squinting slightly, she saw a note propped up against a glass left on the table. Grunting slightly as she sat up, she gingerly swung herself upright, grimacing and sucking air in between her teeth as she knocked one of the wounds that adorned her small, slender frame. In time, the sensations across her body returned to activity, the plethora of damage done to her creating a cacophony of pain throughout her nerves. The injury she had knocked was decidedly more painful than she remembered. She gently reached down, placing a hand against the hole in her side. The contact felt more padded than she expected, and a glance at the offending area revealed a fresh dressing, fastened securely to her side. She smiled to herself as her feet made contact with the floor.

_Still as tender a hand as ever, Stef. Wow, patching me up like this and not once disturbing me from my sleep. Perhaps I was just that exhausted from everything that I passed out. Not that it matters all too much._

Still rubbing sleep from her eyes, she shuffled the few meters to the table where the note sat, definitely written by Stef's hand. She snatched the paper up by a corner, softly sitting down in a chair and groaning as even the slight jolt disturbed the more severe harm that had been inflicted on her body. Narrowing her eyes, she gradually focused in on the words on the page.

 

 _Guten morgen, lisenok!_ A smiley face had been scribbled next to the top line, bringing a slight smile in turn to Max's lips. She continued to read down the page, the smile slowly eroding as she went.

_While you've been sleeping, I had to go report in again. For some reason, die Amerikaner have you on their kill-list. They're sending someone to go and speak to Herr Doktor to try and get a clue- morons- and my orders are to eliminate him, to make their lives that little bit harder. Even though you are a "rogue asset", someone high up seems very interested in keeping your identity secret. Probably to try and clean house, if I were to guess._

_I figured you would prefer to do it. He would prefer you to do it. I'm sorry, Maxi, but there's no other way._

_I've gone to go buy some things, to cover up what I used putting you back together. The briefcase by your bed has everything you should need._

_Viel glück, mein liebe. Not that you've ever needed it._

His address was scrawled onto the bottom of the sheet. _But you probably already knew that,_ Stef had cheekily commented beside it.

Max folded the note away, a few tears coming to her eyes as the memories came back through her mind once more. To everyone else in the Kommissariat, Walter Mayer was 'Herr Doktor', The Doctor. A grisly reference to his past, some forty years ago, when he was once a member of the Gestapo. He'd never hidden that from her, he cared for her too much to keep a secret as major as that. To Max, however, he was 'Uncle Walter'. The only friendly face she had seen for years, after what had happened. The only person in the Kommissariat prepared to take her under his wing, train her, care for her as he would a daughter. The memories she had forged with him had more than helped her heal her past before. 

Now, however, those memories, too, were tainted. Tainted with the knowledge of the horrendous task that lay ahead of her.

* * *

_"Very good, Maxine." The older man had said to her as she lowered the gun, looking down the range, maybe thirty meters away. The three rounds she had fired had found their mark. The three perforations were visible from here, a few centimetres apart, but all grouped tight around where the target's heart would have been, were it not a piece of paper._

_"Again." Max turned to Walter, pouting slightly._

_"But why, Uncle Walter? I can hit the target perfectly, see?"_

_A slightly indifferent look crossed his face. "Maxine, I don't deny that you can shoot well. But, if the enemy can shoot before you, you will be the best shot in the graveyard. Try to draw and fire faster, like- ach- the old gunslingers in Amerika. Here, I'll show you." Softly plucking the weapon from Max's hands, placing it into the empty holster on his own hip. His hands rested by his sides, relaxed. Then, as quick as Max could blink, his right hand grasped the grip of the pistol, unsheathing it in an instant. Before Max could take in that movement alone, he had raised it to eye level, and put a bullet into the target, dead centre of its chest. He brought the muzzle, still smoking slightly, toward his lips, blowing across it theatrically._

_"You see? It will take practice, but you can do it. I'm sure you can." With that, he returned the pistol to her, holding it by its barrel, before taking a few steps back and returning to the chair he had brought out with him._

_Max gulped, softly, as she positioned her hand._

**_Grab the handle, pull it up, get hold and aim. I think that's how we do it._ ** _She checked off in her mind._

_In a snap, she drew the pistol, firing a round down range. The bullet barely clipped the shoulder of the target. She frowned, cursing silently._

**_Scheiße, this is going to be harder than I thought._ **

_"Not a bad first try, Maxine. But a shot like that won't save you from someone who wants your blood. Again."_

_Rolling her neck slightly, she took her position. As she drew this time, her finger- or something, she didn't quite see- grazed the trigger, before she had fully gotten a hold of the weapon. It discharged, making her jump and drop the weapon, the round whizzing as it ricocheted off of something, somewhere. Walter was on his feet before she knew what was going on._

_"Are you alright, Maxine? Are you hurt?"_

_She shook her head, tears in her eyes. "I'm sorry, Uncle, I fucked it up."_

_Instead of the harsh words she would've expected from the Kommissariat instructors, or a slap across the face, a slight smile graced his lips, as he tapped her on the nose. "Remember what I've said about that language of yours. Don't worry, my dear. Mistakes happen." He wrapped his arms around her, hugging her softly. "I'd rather you make a thousand mistakes here, where it makes no difference, than one in the real world, where it will."_

_He swooped a hand across the grass, clutching the downed weapon, presenting it back to her on an open palm._

_"Now, are you ready to try again, or would you like to take a break first?"_

* * *

Wiping the tears from her eyes, she shuffled across to the leather case that sat, handle-up, by her bed. Lifting it onto the mattress, she clicked the catches and flipped the heavy lid over. Inside was a rifle, broken down into numerous parts.

_Vintorez. Hmph, these were just being tested last I heard. Supposed to be pretty good up to four hundred meters too. Stef's right about doing the job properly. I'd rather not have him spend his final moments in agony from a botched shot._

 

Thirty minutes later, having dressed to the style of the West Berliner and taken on board enough sedative to at least take the edge off her agony, she flagged down a taxi, giving the driver the address she had memorised every day since Uncle Walter had defected.  _'For my own safety,'_ he had wrote to her, the letter showing up in a dead-drop a few days later.  _'Some Hurensohn seems to want me dead around here, so it's probably best that I lay low. The other side of the wall seems safe enough. You know where I am if you ever want to drop by.'_

 As she tried to suppress her thoughts and focus on killing Uncle Walter as cleanly as she could, the one song- or one of a selection- she did not want to hear begun on the radio, the gentle [synth keyboard opening and falsetto of the lead singer punctuated by a drumbeat as the song kicked into full tempo.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=88sARuFu-tc)

>   _You leave in the morning with everything you own in a little black case_
> 
> _Alone on a platform, the wind and the rain on a sad and lonely face_

> _Mother will never understand why you had to leave_
> 
> _But the answers you seek will never be found at home_

Blinking more tears from her eyes, she focused her mind once more on the task at hand.

_Okay...there was an office block, across the street from his. Fifty meters, if that. I should be able to get a good line on him from there. Maybe take out Herr Amerikaner as I do it. It would be justice enough, I wouldn't be having to do this otherwise. Fick da, Amerikaner!_

 

"Deine Halt, frau." The taxi driver interrupted her plotting. A glance through the windscreen, the street she knew so well lay just ahead of her. She paid up, and stepped out onto the sidewalk opposite the office she knew so well, and that she was about to see for likely the last time.

* * *

4th July, 1987

  _Charlottenburg District, Berlin_

_8.05 am_

Chloe's eyes flicked open as she reached the destination. Nathan had- eventually- come around from his fit of pique, offering to drive her to the office.

"So, happy with what you have to do, Price?" He asked, his tone somewhat softer than it had been the previous day.

Chloe nodded. "Yeah. Funny, the sorts of people who wind up as spies, eh? Former enemies turned best friends. Amazing what a few decades does."

Nathan rolled his eyes. "Just don't give him the whole 'self righteous bollocks' routine that you Yanks love so much. Just because he's a  _former_ Nazi, doesn't mean you need to drag him through the grinder over it. Nuremburg did a good enough job of that already. With most of 'em, anyway."

Chloe huffed a laugh. "Yeah, yeah. Whatever gave you that idea? You can head back for now if you like, I'll call you when I'm done." With that, Chloe opened the door of the totally-inconspicuous-black Opel, slamming it behind her without so much as a glance back. She smiled at the abuse Nathan hurled her way, something about "leaving the fooking door on its hinges", as she made her way inside the office block.

* * *

_"For fuck's sake, how many flights of stairs do you need in an office block?"_ Chloe muttered to herself, breathlessly, having finally reached the floor she needed. Very little about the door, or its placard, screamed " _Ex-Gestapo Special Officer"_ , which surprised her less than she had expected. Instead, a plain wooden door, a moderately frosted glass pane central within it. The placard was an equally simple affair, a small brass- or possibly tin, Chloe wasn't interested enough by it to tell either way- with a name in stamped black letters. A thought in the back of her head, that the door was what you would expect to find in one of the black and white noire-esque detective films, all that was missing being the black lettering on the glass itself. And perhaps a secretary:

_W. Mayer_

_Privatdetektiv_

Chloe knocked on the frame to one side of the glass. A gentle, yet surprisingly commanding, voice answered.

"Come in, the door's open." Chloe did as she was asked, not quite sure what to expect on the other side of the door. Nevertheless, it did surprise her, just a little: on the shelf to her left, a few of the man's personal effects, including what appeared to be some form of commendation; the desk in front of her was again a simplistic affair, albeit somewhat ornate at the same time. perched upon it was a brass eagle, very similar to the Imperial type she was familiar with seeing on the older structures around the country. Behind the desk, in a chair that most definitely would not have been out of place in an old noire.

The decor fit the owner, Chloe was certain of that, as for a man who must've been at least in his mid-sixties, she would easily have placed his age at half that. The only major giveaways were his hair, greying in several places, thinning slightly on the sides; and his face, which appeared worn, world-weary even. 

"Do sit, please. May I offer you a drink?" Chloe waved her hand, dismissively.

"No drinks here, thank you. Gotta stay somewhat 'professional', apparently." She replied instead, air-quoting the word 'professional'. Mayer laughed curtly, before pouring himself what appeared to be a small glass of grain brandy, leaving the bottle on the desk. Chloe took a seat, noting yet more allusions to the older man's past. He noted the glance she had shot at his effects, choosing to make that the next topic of conversation.

"Yes, that is what you think it is." Another slight laugh. "How do you think I became known as 'Herr Doktor', after all?" 

Chloe gave him a curious glance. "I only know what my partner told me. Something about you being an  _ex_ -Nazi."

Mayer chose not to reply in words, simply nodding as he decided what to say next. "Your partner is correct. I was no soldier, though. Just a member of the Gestapo, although you'll say that was far worse."

A small shiver shot through Chloe. What little she remembered of elementary school history projects came back to mind. Regardless, Mayer continued.

"However, if it makes you any more comfortable, it was never really my choice, and as for my techniques? An unfortunate coincidence. I happened to have some experience as a butcher's assistant as a kid. Who knew that such skills could benefit an interrogator? Not I." 

Chloe gave him a grim smile. "I don't imagine you would've known that. Still, amazing what a twisted cult like the Reich did to innocent skills, innocent people. Don't worry, Mr. Mayer, I'm not Nürnberg. I'm here on other business."

"Please, call me Walter. Professionalism doesn't mean we should have to act like machines. Mrs..."

"Chloe." She filled in the blank for him.

"Such a beautiful name, I do say. Well then, Chloe, shall we get down to the business of why you are here?"

 Chloe pulled out a small envelope, containing some of the less-sensitive information around her assignment, leaving it on the table. She explained herself as he flicked slowly through the information. "I've been assigned to track down a KGB operative who goes by the alias of 'Red Deer'. I'm reliably informed that you have information about them that could be of use to me."

 Mayer scoffed. "Ah, my little Maxine? What could the West possibly want with her?"

The cogs in Chloe's head  crunched as her train of thought hit a brick wall. Her expression hid absolutely none of what was going on in her mind as she sought to confirm Mayer's statement. "Her?"

Mayer gave a gruff laugh in reply. "Indeed, the _Deer_ is a woman. What, you think that the Kommissariat wouldn't take on a young girl as an agent, like you? As much as I despise them, the Russians have a far greater leaning toward female agents than the West! With good reason, I might add." 

Chloe got her composure back as quickly as she could do, while trying to maintain some degree of dignity. "Okay, I get you. So, what can you tell me about her?"

A pensive look graced his face, briefly. "What do you wish to know about her?"

"Anything that'll help me track her down." She deadpanned, knowing full well that he would see straight through her hashed attempt to cover her true purpose.

Mayer gave her an distrusting look. "Please, don't insult my intelligence, Chloe. I know enough to know that your task isn't simply to find her. I still have friends over the wall, and they tell me she's on their kill-list. And yours."

Chloe tried- and failed- to stifle the incredulous expression on her face. "She's disavowed? Since fucking when?"

Mayer waved the question away. "Ach, that is not to worry about. Perhaps someone found out about her past, as they did mine. Why do you think I'm on this side of the wall now?"

Chloe tilted her head to one side slightly, weighting the myriad of questions Mayer's last statement raised in her mind. "Her past?"

Mayer leaned back in her chair. "Yes. Even forty years on, there are those who bear grudges against the descendants of Nazis. Especially those of the SS, or the  _Britischer-Freikorp._ Even though she knew nothing of it at one stage, not while her parents were alive anyway."

Chloe held up a hand, interrupting him. "Wait up, the British Free Corps? If memory serves, they were fifth-columnists. Nazi sympathisers who came to Germany when the war broke out, or switched sides after they were caught. Meant to have been some of the most fanatical troops the Waffen-SS had outside their own. Where do they fit into all of this?"

Mayer concurred. "Indeed. The Freikorps were so fanatical in fact, that the majority who were caught faced execution. Maxine never met her grandfather, he met his fate at the end of a Soviet firing squad as the Reich crumbled to ash. But, dear Maxine's father escaped that. He was only a boy at the time, maybe seventeen, but his hands were as bloody as his father's. he made his comrades in the _Hitlerjugend_ Division look moderate by contrast. Dear  _Großvater_  had spirited he and his mother away, destroyed any trace of his links to them. Or so he thought. However, there were many who were smarter than to stop at the divisional records. He will have known, inevitably, that it would only be a matter of time before someone saw through the deceit, before the smokescreen he had used to cover their escape faded..."

* * *

  _June 14th, 1972_

_Near Altenburg, East Germany_

_10.35 pm Local Time_

Max lay on the back seat of the car under a blanket, a somewhat comfortable sleep setting in, as it slowly made its way back toward their family home, having been visiting family. She had always found it strange that she had only ever met her mother's grandparents. She never thought too heavily about it, however. All she knew was her grandfather's name, James. It seemed strange to her that a German could have a name that far better suited an Englander, but again, it seldom crossed her mind to worry about it.

In the front of the car, her mother and father continued the argument they had been having regularly ever since their daughter was born, keeping their voices down so as not to disturb Max.

"When are you going to tell her, Ryan?" Vanessa asked him, her whisper still carrying every bit of frustration it was supposed to. He tapped on the steering wheel as he drove.

"Tell her what, exactly? That the reason she never met my parents is because he was murdered over my father's past?"

She shot him a darker stare. "That isn't the part that bothers me and you know it. Remember, your father wasn't the only one with a black history to hide. You told me yourself."

Ryan glanced away from her. "I know. I will tell her, but not yet. It's not the right time." The headlights illuminated a checkpoint, a hundred meters or so ahead. Ryan cursed.

"Of course there would be checkpoints tonight. Do these verdammt Russians have nothing better to do?" He cursed, his voice breaking above a whisper. Max stirred in the back of the car.

"What's the matter, father?"

He glanced back toward her, giving her a reassuring smile. "It is nothing, Maxine. You get yourself some sleep, it has been a long day." 

The car rolled slowly to a halt before the wooden barrier and sandbags that appeared to have been hastily erected across the road. One of their jeeps sat empty off to either side, although he could only see four or five soldiers. One of them approached the window with a flashlight. 

"Ihre papiere, bitte." Ryan reached down for the family's papers, nestled in the center console. Max's papers slipped from his fingers and fell back into the gap where they had resided, but he failed to notice, presenting his and his wife's papers to the featurelessly-expressionate guard blinding him with the torche.

"Bitte sehr." Ryan muttered as the guard roughly snatched the identification from his hand, scrutinising it under the harsh white light in his hand. After what seemed like an eternity, the papers were handed back.

"Danke." With that, the guard switched off his flashlight and receded into the darkness. Ryan turned his eyes back to the road, preparing to set off once again. As his hand reached the gearstick, the roadside exploded in a hail of gunfire. Even several years later, Max could still hear the screams, screams which turned out to be her own, continuing long after the gunfire ceased. She still remembered the stench of blood soaking into the upholstery. The flashlight shining into the back of the car, blinding her with a brilliant white. The flashlight dipped, revealing a soldier, his rifle pointed at her. Another- perhaps his commander- roughly took hold of the weapon, jerking it away from her.

_"_ _нет_ _!"_

 The last she remembered of that night was being dragged away from the car, as it was doused in fuel and set alight, embers and flames flickering upward into the clear night sky.

* * *

_Present Day_

"...And so, it was that night that my dear Maxine was set along a path, the one she walks today. Back then, I helped recruit agents for the various programs they had running. One such program involved taking children, turning them into agents. The Kommissariat usually used children from orphanages, they figured nobody would miss them. The moment I saw her, I knew that something,  _something_ about her, was different. The look in her eyes. And I was right: they threw every obstacle you could ever dream of at her. Treated her rougher, more harshly, than any other agent I ever remember. The idiots even sent her to Siberia by mistake! And yet she thrived, she overcame everything they threw at her and not once could they break her will, not once did she ever accept defeat. I must say I am as proud of her as a father could be of a daughter."

Chloe slouched back in the chair, rubbing a temple. Mayer's detailing of the various events that made up the  _Deer's_ \- Maxine's- life to date was bordering on information overload. The last statement he had made struck her as unusual, so she focused her search there next. "As a father could be?"

Mayer nodded, a wry smile on his face. "Indeed. Nobody else would take on the runt, the little girl who they saw as a nuisance. Nobody except I."

Chloe bowed her head slightly. "Right. Well, I guess it makes sense that you'd rather I _don't_ go killing her. Going back a bit, why would they care now about her past? Surely it makes no difference to them that their best agent is the grand-daughter of a Nazi, who by now is cold in his grave?"

It was Mayer's turn to be uncertain. "That, I cannot say for sure. If you find out, do tell me. And I wouldn't worry about that: if anything, I think it is you who should be careful. Maxine knows her trade well. She managed to escape the hit squad they sent to kill her in the middle of the night. And she took out an entire safe-house of agents that had been sent to finish the job. Not that I doubt you are good either, I should add, I just happen to know that sheis easily a match for even the best. She  _is_ the best, the best that the Kommissariat has- _had_ \- to offer."

Chloe acknowledged. "I will. Now, about that drink you offered me earlier."

Mayer beamed, producing another glass from his desk drawer, and filling it with some of the clear liquor that he was drinking. He passed it to Chloe, tipping his glass slightly.

"Zum vohl!"

* * *

In a darkened and empty office, across the street from Mayer's, Maxine steadied her breathing as she blinked the tears from her eyes. She sat at the desk, rifle supported on some of the various items lying around, as she had been taught. Her sights lined up against the back of the man barely visible for all of the obstructions to her line of sight. Her finger tightened around the trigger, taking up the slack. The crossing of the two lines of the scope wavered slightly across his torso with every breath. In, out. Her pulse slowed, as she made her final preparations. A simple prayer, in the back of her mind. 

_Wherever you go from here, Uncle, whether you wind up in Heaven or Hell... please forgive me._

Her finger closed around the trigger, and discharged the round with a muffled crack. The bullet put a small hole in the centre of the pane in front of her, a spider's web of cracks fanning out from it, as it quietly zipped across the void between the rooms. The Berliners on the street below were none the wiser to the events happening three stories above them, the whizzing of the bullet being drowned beneath a sea of noise, as the rest of the district went about its normal activity.

* * *

Several things happened at once, that Chloe noticed anyway: The sound of breaking glass as the window in front of her cracked wildly and inexplicably; the cough-come-grunt Mayer released as a spatter of red erupted through his chest; and the glass in her hand exploding, a searing heat passing the base of her hand as it did so. She recoiled her hand with a yelp as the pieces of glass, and the remaining liquid within, fell to the floor. Her blood ran cold as she shot a glance out of the window. In the dull darkness of the office, she could make out the outline of a rifle. A rifle, and someone sat behind it. She flung herself to one side, the next shot quietly buzzing past and skimming her shoulder.She cried out as she crashed against the hard floor of the office, freezing still for a moment and listening for anything more. As carefully as she dared, she lifted herself up, shooting as quick a glance as she dared at the shooter. The room across the street was now abandoned. Chloe took a series of breaths, trying to offset the adrenaline crashing through her veins. The smell of blood now hung in the air, specks of red dotted across the surfaces in a conical spread in front of Mayer, who lay motionless on the desk. Chloe took one glance at him, judging his state without once laying a finger on him.

_Well, he's sure to shit dead. Doesn't take a doctor to figure that much out. I wonder whether there's anything of use in here._ A brief search of the room revealed very little of interest, save for a framed photograph on his desk, which she picked up to study closer. Mayer, stood with his arm over the shoulder of a young woman- probably her age- both looking incredibly pleased and proud. The date on the small brassy placard at the base of the photo put the date around 1979, most likely when Maxine had earned her stripes as a spy for the other side. In the background, Chloe could make out what appeared to be a training camp, the styling of which matched what the field reports said of the KGB's primary school for operatives. Chloe assimilated every detail she could from the image, every little detail of the young woman stood next to him. It didn't take a Harvard professor to figure things out from there.

_So this must be her. The Red Deer. Maxine Caulfield. Well, Maxine, I suppose we'll meet each other sometime soon. Shame that we'll most likely be staring down the barrel of one another's guns. Shame indeed, she's definitely a looker. What is it with the Reds and recruiting some absolutely smoking women?_ She blinked sharply, glancing away from the photo.  _Professionalism, Chloe. Stop fantasising about the agent you're being sent to eliminate, idiot. That's how you got sent to Bautzen the last time, remember?  Well, kinda._

Chloe picked up the receiver of the telephone sat on the desk, trying not to put her hand on any of the specks of blood that had spattered across it, and dialled in the number she'd memorised some years ago, for the handler's office in Berlin. After a few moments of ringing, the line was answered. A distinctly feminine voice, which surprised Chloe.

"Tyrell Exports, how may I help you?"

_Victoria? Why the hell have they brought her here?_ Chloe shook off the idle thought and continued with what was on her to-do list.

"Employee designation Victor-Two-Seven-Niner-Echo. I need to speak to the management."

A pause. "Hold please, putting you through." Chloe flinched at the slight crackle and whine as the line was secured at the other end, before the call was once again picked up.

"Price. I'm hoping you've made some progress towards tracking the Deer down."

Chloe hesitated as she answered. "Uh... kind of, sir. You'll need to send clean-up to Mayer's office though, someone popped him. Also... I need to discuss a few things, in person. I don't feel it's appropriate to discuss over the phone, secured or not."

A sigh on the other end of the line, before they replied. "Very well. Schöneberg Park, in one hour. Dismissed." The line was cut, leaving Chloe to take one last look at the mess that was now Mayer's office before leaving. On her way down the now-busy street outside, she bumped into a young woman carrying a small leather attache case, catching a brief glance of her as she went.

"Entschuldigung." She muttered to the smaller woman she had collided with. As she did, her mind took in a few of the details that her eyes had skimmed over.

Brown hair, extending to about halfway down her neck; deep blue eyes, not dissimilar from hers, save for the darker look behind them, of eyes that had seen countless unspeakable things, eyes that were rimmed red, damp at the base; that physique, the small frame that no doubt concealed toned and tuned killer. It took Chloe half a dozen paces for the pieces to set every alarm in Chloe's head ringing in a  full scale alert, her eyes shooting wide open in surprise and shock. Reaching for the handgun concealed in her waistband, she spun around. All that she saw was a bustling street of Berliners going about their daily business.

* * *

_Schöneberg Park_

_11.00 Local Time_

Chloe strolled through the park, casually as ever. To any would-be onlooker, she had the appearance of someone who would normally be found in the more disreputable clubs around the city. Not worth a second glance, to most normal people. Most were simply enjoying the dry day, the fauna of the park. Chloe had already spotted what- who- she was here for. An older gentleman, sat at a bench. Dressed in business attire, with a case not too far different to what your average clerk or executive would wear, a small briefcase, reading a newspaper. Chloe knew fine well that the briefcase, if it were to be opened, wouldn't contain office work, more likely it would have an MP5K or some other sub-machine gun concealed within, and enough ammunition for a lengthy firefight. The Secretary sure was paranoid for one reason or another, and Chloe had never quite figured out why. Chloe sat down roughly on the unoccupied part of the bench, causing Andrews to flinch slightly.

"Sure you couldn't be a little less gentle about how you do things?" He asked, a little bit of an edge to the question.

Chloe shrugged. "Does it matter that much?"

Andrews glanced away from his newspaper to look at her. "No, I don't suppose it does with you. What was so important that you couldn't say it over the phone?"

Chloe sat for a moment or two, stringing the information into the best possible order for him to comprehend. "I got a pretty good amount of information from Mayer before he was murdered. I know who the _Deer_ is now. Her name, what she looks like, definitely enough to start working from.

" _Her_ name?" Andrews probed. 

" _Her_ name," Chloe affirmed. "Maxine Caulfield. Grand-daughter of a British Nazi- he was killed by the Reds during the fall of Berlin- and daughter of an ex- _Hitlerjugend_ member, 12th SS if I were to guess. Parents were murdered by Soviet occupation forces fifteen years ago, she wound up being recruited from an orphanage by Mayer. From what he's said, she's definitely tough."

Chloe noted that Andrews didn't seem awfully surprised at this information being revealed to him. Almost as though he'd already known it. Unfazed, and electing to omit her brief encounter with Maxine in the street, Chloe continued. "Sir, with respect, I'd like to suggest a change to the assignment."

Andrews gave her a near-belittling glare. "Go on."

Chloe gulped softly, continuing. "I suggest we try and take her. Alive. Mayer mentioned something from his sources over the wall. The  _Deer_ was disavowed, even he wasn't totally certain as to why. Given how high up the ladder she was, how damned good an agent she  _is_ , I think she could be more useful to us alive than in a body-bag, or an unmarked grave on the city outskirts, as much as I'd like to see her there."

Andrews sat for a moment- not nearly long enough, in Chloe's mind- considering her proposal, before answering. "No. I know that you're perhaps trying to show some professional courtesy, perhaps your interest in her is more than professional, but we  _cannot_ take that kind of risk. She's already perpetrated all kinds of acts against us. She's too much of a risk to even entertain the possibility of taking alive. Your orders are unchanged."

"But, sir! I-" Chloe started, being cut off by Andrews' raised hand.

"I heard you the first time. Look, Price, I like that you think for yourself. Even though we seldom see eye-to-eye on things, I admire your tenacity, and you get results no matter the odds. But all of this questioning, all this insistence, over an  _enemy_ agent? You surely can't blame me for wondering whose team you are on. I need to know that you're on  _this_ team. Otherwise, I'll have no choice to take you off the assignment, and refer you back for evaluation. Perhaps I was wrong, clearing you for duty so soon after we got you back. Tell me, did I make the right call?"

Chloe's head spun slightly as the mild battering she had received. "N-no, sir. I'm on this team. You can trust me to get it done." She stood up to leave, and was stopped by Andrews, briefly.

"Good. I've managed to chase down another lead for you. Here's the address." He handed her a small note, which she folded and placed into her pocket. "One more thing, Price. From now on, you report directly to me on this assignment, nobody else. There's reason to suspect there's a leak within our intelligence network. It's possible that we've been compromised. Until we plug that leak, you know about the current state of the case, and I know about it. That's where it stops. Understood?"

Chloe nodded, as she stood up, and stretched her legs off. "Yes, sir." As she walked toward the main road by the park, her mind swirled. 

_We have a leak? Who? And why the fuck would he think I'm compromised for the mere suggestion of taking Maxine alive? Ah, to hell with it. Why the fuck can these assignments never be something simple, like 'Enter, Shoot Commie, Leave'?_

She flagged down a taxi, electing instead to go to her safe-house. Her mind was too full of unanswered questions to survive a question session with another potential lead, instead she figured on hitting up the local bars. Her mind was so overburdened, in fact, that she failed to notice the taxi, a couple of cars back, that followed hers.

* * *

_Tempelhof District, Berlin_

_23.50 Local Time_

Chloe stumbled back through the door, just about able to balance after the drinks she'd had. She realised midway through her fifth beer that the year-plus spent in an East German prison had made a significant impact on her alcohol tolerance. The spartan apartment was completely dark, until she swung a hand clumsily at the switch, casting a yellowish hue on the room. She noted that Prescott's effects had disappeared from the room, and she grinned to herself with some extent of satisfaction.

_I suppose this is a perk of things being made even more secret now. I get a whole safe-house apartment, all to myself. Oh yes._

The rain outside pattered softly against the window, drawing her attention slightly to it. On the inside of the windowsill, her side of the window, sat on end a pair of spent brass shell casings. A pair of nine-millimetre, Russian-made spent shell casings. Her drunken stupor gave way to a cold shudder of fear. Someone, whoever had killed Mayer in front of her eyes, and taken a shot at her earlier, had been in here! Chloe stumbled across the room, almost tripping over several objects as she went, praying in the back of her mine that it was a twisted hallucination, a sick joke her mind was playing on her. her hand grasped one casing and knocking the other over, scrutinising it in an increasing panic. Definitely the right type for a Vintorez, and no doubt the ones that has been used to eliminate Mayer- and her almost with him. Her eyes caught something, outside the window. Stood under the streetlight, on the other side of the road, not even thirty metres away. A woman, standing sentinel in the rain, gazing up at her apartment window. It was a mere silhouette, but its very shape matched almost perfectly that of the woman she had encountered earlier that day, the figure of Maxine Caulfield. A truck came along the street darkened, carrying a haze of spray from the downpour in its wake. The headlights illuminated the figure, gradually brighter and brighter as it closed distance. The clothing she had been wearing- a pair of plain leather boots, reaching up to her mid-calf; a somewhat slim pair of jeans, torn in a few places; a simple flannel-like shirt just slightly visible under the black trench coat that covered most of her, that was slick and shining with the incessant rain. That hairstyle, dampened down so that it stuck to the edges of her face, which a chiaroscuro in the brightening light from the truck. An expression of sadness, even grief, on her face, as the water shimmered ever so slightly as the light hit it. The truck passed in front of her, blocking Chloe's view for a matter of moments. The thin spray from the truck settled, and the figure was gone. Vanished, as if into thin air. Chloe's heart continued to hammer away in her chest at what she was now guessing was her third close encounter with the  _Deer_ in the space of mere hours.

Despite the alcohol in her system, Chloe couldn't find it in her to sleep that night, her mind a volatile mix of unanswered questions and unkempt fear at the thought of being paid a second, less subtle visit in the night. It would definitely have been Chloe's next move, at any rate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **TRANSLATIONS**  
>  Der Amerikaner- (GER) The Americans  
> Herr Doktor- (GER) "Mr Doctor", i.e. 'The Doctor."  
> Viel glück, mein liebe- (GER) "Good luck, my love."  
> Fick Da- (GER) "Fuck You"  
> Hurensohn- (GER) "Whore-son." [Yes, my friends from Germany, I am aware that that is a VERY naughty one, as far as I've read it's pretty much top of the list of 'Things You Should Never Call A German in Public'.  
> However, it seems apt to describe someone who is looking to try and murder/assassinate you. If it really is a bit too far, I could use a more tame word to replace it with.]  
> нет!- (RU) "no!"  
> Zum vhol!- (GER) "To good health!"  
> Entschuldigung- (GER) "Excuse me."  
> \---  
> So, now we know a little more about Max. While Chloe severed contact with what family she had voluntarily, Max's family were torn from her in an instant. Like I say, a smidge of Goldeneye inspiration there: Alec Treveleyan's backstory, namely. ICYMI, I went back to Chapter 5 and tweaked one thing or another, too: While writing this chapter, I realised that the original name I'd put into the previous chapter was Hans Kramer. I far preferred the name of Walter Mayer, it felt a little bit more of an organic name, so I changed it to that instead. Also, I've got a serious number of typos to go back and fix from what I can see.
> 
> I didn't make that family background up either: the British Free Corps really was a thing, and British Nazi sympathisers did indeed move over to Germany prior to WW2. Although the BFC saw little active combat (and never numbered greater than about 60 men) it did exist, and no doubt the occupying forces after the War would still have had resentment and a taste for revenge and reprisals in the years subsequent, because the BFC were- in places- renowned for being as fanatical as the Waffen-SS.  
> I don't mean to drag up history quite as bluntly as this, however I imagine it was still something of a delicate issue in 80s Germany, no matter which side of The Wall you were on. Plus, it offers up some element of background when we get further into detail on Max. That, and character's pasts are definitely going to be quite a driving factor in the path things take within this story.
> 
> I fell like I'm being overkill on the details at times, like in the final scene there. Was that too much, or was it about right? I could definitely use pointers so I can fine-tune how I write for the next chapter.
> 
> ___  
> Also, I'm wondering: is Deutschland 83 worth a watch? I've seen that it covers (early) 80s Berlin and it looks like it could be handy. Anyone seen this and wish to confirm/deny this? I've already got a mahoosive backlog of series to watch (seven seasons of Dexter, multiple seasons of god-knows-what other shows) but assuming Deutschland is actually useful, I might bump that up to top priority.
> 
> As you'll notice, I'm not starting to link the songs I'm referring to into the appropriate chapters, to make it easier for you to listen to them. Hopefully, you'll agree that they match up to what's going on in the scene, and have the right feel where required.
> 
> Finally: It's probably going to be a while before this or _What the Future Holds_ sees an update. Sorry, but I have to prioritise my apprenticeship right now. More assignments than I ever wish to see again, plus exams less than two months away. In three words, "I Am Screwed." I will endeavour to get the next chapters written but I can't give a concrete estimate on when they'll land. I will endeavour to get some work done on them when I have time though.
> 
> I'm also considering reducing the chapter count, probably to around 16 or 18 chapters as opposed to the 20 currently slated. I'm not cutting anything out by doing that, I assure you, and it's likelier that the chapters yet to be written will become a little longer as a result (like this one has become). My original plan was a prologue, three six-chapter Acts, and an epilogue. the Epilogue will remain, but I don't have enough minor and major plot points to justify keeping the six-chapter format. I might renege on this, but right now I don't think I have enough material to really write twenty chapters and have them all be plot-logical. Then again, the subplot is yet to be introduced, and I'm pretty sure I can get at least two or three chapters' worth of writing from those without impacting on the flow of things. We'll see what happens, but don't be overly shocked or angry if indeed the chapter count comes down a bit.
> 
> (Silver lining is, summer is likely going to see me doing A LOT of writing while college is out. Still gotta work- 5 days a week at that stage- but that's easier for me to do than college.)
> 
> Tschuß!


	7. Hunting the Haunted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Synopsis: Max, still haunted by having to eliminate Mayer, continues her hunt for the evidence she needs to get her reinstated. In the process of doing so she comes across a startling revelation.
> 
>  
> 
> Chloe reflects on her last few weeks, before a fractious meeting with her superiors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, an update on time for once! Crazy right?
> 
> Well, I'm on 5 days a week at work on my apprenticeship from now until September so we'll see if I can maintain this level of productivity.
> 
> We're now moving into Act II: Still going to have little snippets of the past showing up here and there, but things are gonna pick up speed toward the end. It's going to get crazy. And (I hope!) you're gonna love it.

  _Somewhere in West Berlin_

_September 4th, 1987_

_05.40_

Max awoke with a burning sensation in her eyes. The same stinging she'd woken up experiencing every day since that one day. Rarely had she killed someone, and had to live with it; Uncle Walter was the obvious exception, apparently. Every night for the last two months, she had cried herself to sleep, unable to think of anything beyond what she had lost. Every night, she had the same nightmare over and over. The format was slightly different now and again, but it was essentially identical in the point it put across. Her Uncle Mayer sat across from her, as she was fixed immobile in an interrogation chair. The gore still dripped from his chest where the bullet had torn him open, his complexion deathly pale. In place of a torture chamber was his office, complete with the bloodied desk and shattered glassware where Der Amerikaner had been sat. The same question was reiterated, time and again, dripping crimson at the mouth.

_"Why did you do it, Maxine?"_

She shook her head, cupping her hands to her face and rubbing against her eyes so roughly that an onlooker would think she was going to gouge them out.

 _Stop being pathetic, Max. You still have work to do._ The rationalising voice in the back of her head, as cold and compassionless as it was, had most certainly served well to keep her sane so far. She swung herself out of the bed with a groan, rolling her various joints to make sure they all still worked as intended. She shuffled into the bathroom, clumsily grabbing the cord as she entered to illuminate the windowless room. The light's warm yellow glow spilled out into the dawn-lit main area. As ever, she was awake before sunrise, and a dim grey hue seeped in from the windows, a mixture of streetlights at the edges of their illumination and natural light. She leaned against the faucet for a few minutes, staring at herself. She was a mess, that she was willing to accept: her hair was unkempt and unruly, there were likely beggars with hair that was in a better condition; her eyes were red-rimmed and damp from the caustic tears she'd emptied across her pillow on goodness-knows-how-many occasions. She was barely keeping her form as it was, her frame being slightly more emaciated than she desired it to be. She wasn't on top form, but she still had enough of a fight left in her.

"If der Amerikaner were to burst through the door now, you would be utterly fucked." She muttered to herself, with a dark chuckle. The thought reminded her of that night, the night that she had paid her hunter a visit. The look on her drunk face, even from the distance she was at, had made it worthwhile. She pondered whether the other agent had actually slept that night, on account of such a close encounter with death. Her second that day, in fact.

_I sure to hell wouldn't be sleeping if she had done that to me. I'd have gone after the bitch, gotten her back and more. I suspect she can't wait to try and do just that. Then we'll see who the better agent really is._

She pulled the thin shirt she had slept in over her head and cast it into a corner in the room, her underwear following shortly after as she stepped into the smooth porcelain tub and turned the dial on the wall. A slight smile graced her lips as the hot water flowed across her body, steam rising up, clouding the bathroom and spilling out of the open door as it went. There was perhaps work to be done today, but it could wait until she had enjoyed a shower in peace, at the very least.

* * *

_CIA Safehouse, West Berlin_

_07.40_

Chloe stirred from her elusive good night's sleep with a soft yawn, screwing her eyes shut and opening them. She growled to herself, instantly regretting the decision, as the sun bore into her eyes from the uncovered windows.

 _Fuck, I've slept in today._ She thought to herself as she noted the time of day. A further frown graced her face as another detail occurred to her. _I've got to go report in, too. Double fuck!_

Her last two months had been equal parts frustrating and exhausting. Every time she came within grasp of the _Deer_ \- Maxine- she slipped through her fingers. It was as though she could see the future, at that. Or, someone on the inside was helping her, telling her when Chloe was within striking distance. The closest Chloe had gotten to taking her out was breaking through the door of a seldom-frequented BND hideout to see her quarry slip into the bathroom and out of a window. Incidentally, that encounter had been the closest she had come to death since being sat in Mayer's office: as she moved to pursue Maxine and entered the bathroom, she felt the slight resistance of a wire against her shin, followed by the unmistakable click of a grenade pin being pulled out and the loud crack of its chemical fuse lighting. The small round explosive dropped onto the floor at her feet. Needless to say, there were a thousand thoughts running through her mind in that instant, and if she'd been in need of an improvised laxative, it would've done wonders. She'd leapt into the cast bathtub, crashing against its solid bed, moments before a piercing crack and a shockwave that shook the tub, pieces of fragmented metal erupting out from the trap she had triggered as her hearing was drowned by a high-pitched ringing. A few yelped curses as some of the fragments landed in the tub with her, still hot enough to burn. She subconsciously rubbed her wrist, where one such scar remained, scowling. _I am going to make her fucking suffer when I see her. First, she tries using me for target practice; then, she leaves a fucking leaving present for me. I'll fucking well teach her some goddamned manners._

The snarky part of her mind, as ever, looked on the flipside of the encounter. _Or, you can thank her for using a four-second fuse rather than the instant-detonation fuse she should have used._

She frowned as she thought some more about it more, in the wider context of what had happened two months earlier. _Yeah, what's up with that? Two chances where she's had the chance to kill me, three if you count her breaking into my apartment, and yet I'm still alive. Why hasn't she taken the opportunity when she's had it?_

The phone rang on its table as she puzzled over the question. After a few moments, she picked up the receiver, her face screwing up into an uncomfortable expression as she heard the voice at the other end of the line.

 _"Price. You're supposed to have been here thirty minutes ago, you do realise?"_ Director Andrews uttered, with an obvious level of annoyance in his voice.

Trying to take some of the disdain out of her own voice, she answered. "I'm aware of that, Director. I've only been awake for about ten minutes, I didn't get to sleep until about one this morning." A small lie, but one she was confident she could slip by him.

A sigh on the other end of the line. _"Very well. Hansaplatz Station, in one hour. Don't be late again."_ The call cut abruptly, before she could answer with anything else. She lazily slung the handset back onto the table, not bothering to put it back on its hook. Andrews was a dick at the best of times, but his tone there had sounded all kinds of wrong, far more abrasive than normal. He seemed impatient. Part of Chloe's mind was telling her that it was down to her being an hour late; another reminded her that he knew she was far from punctual at the best of times. _Something_ was off about his tone and she wasn't sure what exactly it was. If nothing else, then _boy_ did he seem to have a hard-on for getting Maxine dealt with.

 _One way to find out_ , she mused to herself as she slipped some clothes on. As she headed for the door, she glanced at her father's trusty handgun, lying where she had left it. Yet to be fired in anger on her excursions. After a few moment's consideration, she swiped it up in her palm, checking the safety and tucking it down the back of her jeans, her jacket concealing it from view.

_Just in case._

* * *

_West Berlin_

_8.40 am_

Max shuddered a little as an icy draught caught her. The weather was beginning to turn, that was a definite. Most of her attempts to find evidence had been fruitless as yet, save for a few tantalising hints. There was precious little she could do alone, however. She'd settled today to walk through one of the parks to take a break from everything, perhaps even clear her head a little in the process. Such an approach had served her well many times in the past: often, an idle thought had whilst taking time away from an investigation or suchlike would give her exactly the answer she was looking for. Indeed, it was a good idea in her eyes. For a Friday morning, it was relatively quiet. Granted, there were still a few dozen people milling about in the park, going about their own lives. A few men and women in business dress sat reading the local tabloids on the park benches, sensationalist garbage that it was. The paranoid voice in the back of her head told her that she was walking into a trap, but she shook off the thought. To the best of her knowledge, not even Stef knew where she was.

As she continued onward, she found herself less interested in her many problems and more taken in by the natural beauty of the park. Even the simpler things in life were now having a far greater meaning to her, like the chorus of birdsong, softly echoing throughout the park, the dulled colours of the leaves, still attached to their branches as they turned to browns and oranges, even the occasional playful shriek of a child, somewhere in the distance. There was some great level of joy she could take in slipping into the normal world around her. For a few moments, perhaps she was living a normal life, rather than that of a renegade spy. So enthralled was she in her surroundings that she hadn't noticed a youngish character- her age, maybe a little older- in a battered leather jacket, an appearance and style most would recognise as being part of a local gang of youths, walking toward her. He barged into her roughly, muttering a meaningless apology to Max as she snapped out of her daze.

Checking her pockets worriedly to ensure nothing had been stolen, she found a small cigarette packet, with a lipstick kiss on its exterior. She looked up, trying to locate the figure so that she could question them, but they had disappeared into the more crowded area of the park. She popped open the box, frowning in confusion at its contents. A reel of photographic film, used by the look of it, was coiled up within the box. She closed the lid and slotted it back into her pocket quickly, making her way back out of the park as fast as she could.

An hour and a half later, she slammed the door shut behind her, sweeping the room with her handgun in case there were any lurking threats. Naturally, the safehouse she had gone to was different to the one she'd stayed in for the last few days. Her experiences in the last eight weeks had shown her the prudence of such behaviour as, without fail, every safehouse she had used had been hit by either the West or the Commissariat soon after she had cleared out. Suitably satisfied that nobody was going to put a bullet in her back, she closed the curtains and flicked on the lights. On her way back, she had dropped by a library, one she knew from past experience had a scanner in the back corner. Not bothering to look properly at any of the images there and then, she hastily printed everything out- with innumerable apprehensive glances over her shoulder- before making for this safehouse. Now that she was alone, she began to ponder the images in front of her. The film had all kinds on it, from dossier pages- Stasi, KGB, even BND files it seemed- to photographs taken during stakeouts and more. Max sat agape as she read through a series of internal communications between the upper echelons of the Stasi, dated three weeks before her world was turned upside down:

_Rotwild investigation suggests traitor within the Kommissariat._

_Focus available resources to uncover and eliminate._

She read on. Another memo, dated the day before she had been unceremoniously uprooted and forced to flee for her life.

_Information from Das Frettchen indicates Rotwild as prime suspect in assassination of Comrade Chairman Hammelberg. Rotwild also suggested as likely traitor. Locate and eliminate. Priority One._

_It was an inside job!_ Max thought to herself as she dropped the sheet of paper back onto the table. _I fucking knew it. But who? Who could it be?_ Max racked her brain for a few moments, before realising. _Der Frettchen. I've heard of them, vaguely. Nobody knows who they are though. Now, if I were a traitor, that's who I'd be and what I'd do._ Slowly, the cogs clicked into place in her head.

_It has to be! Now, all I need is to try and find some fucking information about them and I might stand half a chance of nailing them!_

Sure enough, as she pored through the other information, there was enough to confirm her suspicions: most of it was her own work, done whilst assigned to track down the traitor in the ranks.

As she was about to burn the upscaled photos, to get rid of any evidence, she noticed one final slide. A letter, one which she recognised the handwriting of immediately.

 

_Hello Maxine, my dearest,_

_If you're reading this, then I owe Martin a favour or two when I see him next. These are some odd ends of information I was able to find for you._

_I know you can only do so much, 'best spy in the East' or not. I've got more where this came from, if you're interested. You know where to find me._

_Of course, if you are_ _not_ _Maxine and you are reading this, I look forward to putting a bullet in you, somewhere that'll hurt._

_x_

 

Max crumpled the piece of paper slightly, out of annoyance.

_I'm going to have to pay her a visit, for her own damned safety._

* * *

  _Approaching Hansaplatz U-Bahn Station_

_8.35 am_

The subway train screeched along its tunnel, slowly meandering toward the station. Its lighting was a stale yellow, more or less matching that of the tiles adorning the support pillars Chloe had seen at the other U-Bahn stations. There was something far less enjoyable about these trains than, say, the London Underground, even if the latter was like being in a tin of sardines.

_I suppose there's something about the Tube that makes it feel… alive, I guess._

She flinched slightly, reacting every now and again to the white flashes of electrical arcing, from the systems carrying the train onward. All the while, the squeals of metal on metal below her and the constant rattling of the boxy carriage being knocked about on its tracks were drowned out by her thoughts, once more running rampant in her mind. Most prominent were two: the _Deer's_ apparent involvement in her father's demise some ten years ago; and the fact that, despite so many clear chances to kill her, Maxine had spared her life. Strangely, Chloe found that the latter question was the more prominent of the two.

 _Supposedly, she's killed numerous members of her_ _own_ _side up to now, without so much as a bat of an eyelid. Why would she go out of her way- rogue agent or not- to avoid harming me?_

She ran her thumbnail between two teeth, removing some grime from underneath it that wasn't there, as she tried to rationalise her opponent's actions. After a number of minutes of hard thought, she drew a blank. Her mind was made up on one point, however.

_Fuck what the brief says. If I get even half a chance at it, I'm taking Maxine- the Deer, even- alive. I need answers, at the very least._

After what felt like an eternity, the train careened to a halt with a deafening screech of wheels against track, and following an emotionless tone over the announcement speakers, the doors of the carriage clattered open, allowing her to step out. For a Friday morning, at rush hour no less, the station was remarkably quiet, just a few commuters going about their day. As the station emptied, and the train departed with a whirring of motors and the screeching of runner wheels against track, she took in the station a little.The air felt as stale here as the decor, the only mechanism driving any flow of the lukewarm fluid being the trains batting it aside as they approached and dragging it behind them as they departed the platforms. A little graffiti here and there, a common sight in these older stations. The tiled columns, somewhat distressed, the masonry crazed slightly on its surface. In appearance at least, it was almost identical to some of the subway stations she'd seen when she'd been through New York. She sighed, as she thought about how little of a life she'd had: the Agency had been almost everything she'd ever known for six years; she'd only been away from operations when there were none to go out on, or she was lying in hospital after one of her many unfortunate misadventures.

_So many places I've visited, yet I've barely been anywhere. I swear, if I manage to leave this life behind me, one of the first things I'm doing is going out to explore the world._

 

"Price. About fucking time." A voice rang out from behind her, making her stiffen somewhat.

She turned on her heel, wiping the look of disgust from her face that she knew was there. "Director Andrews. Good morning." She addressed him as politely as she could, walking toward him as he leant against one of the columns.

"I was starting to wonder whether you'd be here or not. What have you got on the case?"

Chloe rolled her head to the side for a moment. "I've been making some progress, it's been-"

"Progress? Nearly nine weeks, and all you have to show for it is _'progress'_ ?" Andrews cut her off. As she opened her mouth to counter, he continued onward. "Price, this isn't one of those assignments where _progress_ will do. We need results, and the sooner the better."

"Sir!" Chloe snapped, frustrated, "I'm getting close, I've almost lost track of how many times I've come within grasp of taking the _Deer_ out."

"And yet every time, she eludes your grasp." Andrews highlighted, flatly.

Chloe stared back at him, equally uncertain and agitated.

"I never said the _Deer_ was a woman."

Andrews sighed slightly. "Well, it's common knowledge that most of their top agents are women. At any rate, when you bother to provide mission reports, I do read them. Enough to see what's happening- or not. Like I said, how is it that Chloe Price, _top operative_ , can manage to fuck up a simple 'Seek and Destroy' job?"

"Are you questioning my ability to do my job, or my loyalty?" Chloe snapped back, growing increasingly agitated.

Andrews looked her dead in the eyes. His expression was an icy cold, his eyes having the appearance of polished steel. "You know what, I'm not sure yet. For all I know, you _could_ be the mole within our network." Chloe turned away to leave, mortified and enraged by the mere suggestion of accusation, but Andrews grabbed her by the arm.

"I wasn't finished. As much as I hate to admit it, you are easily the best agent out here. However, that isn't enough to protect you. Find the _Deer_ and kill her, or I'll have to bring someone in who can. Are we clear?"

Chloe shook off his grip, and walked briskly for the stairwell.

 _Who the fuck does he think he is, accusing me of being the fucking traitor?_ She bounded up the steps to the street level, her feet striking with added vigour as she took out her anger. The cool breeze of the outdoors intermingled with the warm staleness of the underground as she approached the exit, the area beyond being nothing but a white glow from her perspective. Disregarding the signs adorning the sides of the entrance, she drew a cigarette from the packet in her jacket and slotted it between her lips, scanning the area in front of her as she lit the tip. A hard drag, forcing as much of the heated smoke down into her lungs, closing her eyes as the wave of nicotine washed over her. She rarely smoked any more- by contrast to her childhood, at any rate- but for once it was most certainly required. She blew the smoke back out through her nose as she ran her mind back over the meeting-cross-chastising she had just endured.

 _Well, I might as well have not bothered coming. "Kill her, or we'll bring in someone who can"?_ _That's_ _how he wants to be about it? Something feels way off about all of this, but I can't put my finger on it._

She shook her head, smothering the embers of her relief between thumb and forefinger, casting the half-consumed smoke into the nearest trash can.

_Back to it, I suppose. I wish I could tell what's setting off my spider-senses. They haven't let me down so far._

* * *

_East Berlin_

_12.20 pm_

Stef opened the door to her apartment with a sigh, slipping her long jacket off of her arms as she stepped over the threshold of her apartment. It had been one hell of a long day: almost the entirety of the Directorate had been tasked to hunt down Maxine, and she- while being given far more autonomy than the rest of the underlings- was no exception. It was the Devil's own job to figure out how to help her, whilst _appearing_ to be doing her job. She ran a hand through the hair on the back of her head as she released another deep sigh, weighting the keys in her hand.

_However did you end up in such a mess, Maxine? As good as you are, I fear you can't outrun the world forever._

She pushed the door behind her shut with one hand, as she dropped the keys onto where she expected the small table by the door to be. Instead of the sound of metal connecting with the cheap wooden top, there was a slight chinking noise, as they were intercepted by something softer. Before Stef had a time to put the pieces together, she was being pinned against the door, a pair of hands clamped around the insides of her elbows, restraining her arms against her attempts to move them, a knee pressed against her hip to keep her in place. Her breath caught in her throat for a moment as her heart rate skyrocketed. Then, she caught the faintest scent of her mystery assailant. She relaxed, chuckling slightly.

"Still got your keys, I see?" She purred.

"Stef, seriously! I'm glad you're trying to help me, but for your own sake, it's got to stop!" Max hissed back, irritated.

"Ah! So, I do owe Martin a few favours!"

Max eased up a little. "Anyone else would suspect you're trying to get poor _Kolibri_ into trouble, as if he's not had enough for a lifetime. Also, if you wouldn't mind…" Max glanced down, toward Stef's boot, raised up the inside of her leg. At its tip, a small blade- no doubt laced with poison of some horrific kind- was pressed against Max's inner thigh, uncomfortably close to her groin. With a wry smile, Stef brought her foot back to the floor. Max refused to let her move away from the wall, however, keeping her pinned there.

Stef countered Max's earlier statement, in her typically blasée manner. "Martin understands what it's like to have the Directorate turn its back, cast you out. Sure, he was a _little_ reluctant, especially given that the West have only just stopped trying to collect his head for what happened around _Able Archer_ , and our superiors have finally let him live in peace, but when I explained it to him…"

Max raised an eyebrow. " _Explained_?"

Stef shot her back- playfully- an insulted look. "Hey, don't get my methods mixed up with Nina's. I don't coerce and bully our own agents, much less stick guns in their faces."

Max's expression softened into a sarcastically questioning look, not speaking a word.

Stef's cheeks went slightly red. "Okay, you've got me there. _But_ , I only do that to the operatives I don't like. And I like Martin, we go a ways back. God, I basically played counsellor for him and Annette, when they were… you know…"

Max giggled slightly, remembering the stories she'd heard of such _counselling_ _sessions_ , and leaned back, taking her hands off of Stef's arms and releasing her from the wall. Stef briefly rubbed the crooks of her elbows, sore from having had Max's weight directed onto them for however long. Before Max had a chance to react, she wrapped her arms around Max's torso, planting a kiss on her forehead. Max blushed, as Stef gave a wider, wry smirk.

"Damn you for being taller, Stef." Max quietly muttered. Stef lifted her up slightly, so that their eyes met  more closely.

"Damn you for being shorter, Max." She countered with another smile, before their lips met once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **TRANSLATIONS**  
>  "der Amerikaner"- [GER] "The American"  
> "Rotwild"- [GER] "Red Deer" (Bear in mind this is an East German Stasi file, and Max is _technically_ a Russian KGB operative)  
>  "Das Frettchen"-[GER] "The Ferret"  
> ___  
> So, for those of you who have asked, or want to ask, "So... is this CaulRich?"  
> Strictly speaking... no. What you're getting to see is Max's _previous_ relationship, one which ended prior to her life being flipped upside down. However, this version of Stef- as seen up to now- is definitely somewhat flirtatious and forward. That, and Max (as you can probably see) doesn't mind at least staying on _some_ level of relationship with her. For now, at least.
> 
> Also, if the U-Bahn sequence seems a little long, I apologise on that. I was away over the last weekend in London and spent A LOT of time running around on the Tube (far better than my county's transport I must say) so I decided to build in some of the experiences I had there. 
> 
> Hopefully, you're all still liking this and haven't swapped over to Midsomer Murders (sorry for those who aren't Brits, it's an old Top Gear references). I will tell you now, some of what's planned may well blow your damned minds (muahahaha!)  
> And yes, I'm going to start slipping in little bits here and there from _Deutschland_. Don't worry, I think Martin will be making a few reappearances later in this and Act and Act III. I'll try not to make it too intrusive, but Martin will be getting some level of involvement in the story for a while as well.  
>  ___  
> Once again, I owe Lazy and Letters for having the patience to deal with my grouchy, "Need Sleep!" self. They've had a read over what I do, made sure it isn't more riddled with spelling errors than my Year 3 work. So, they're now tagged as co-creators (much to their chagrin, ha ha).  
>  **NEWSFLASH!**  
>  We're planning to host a Q and A in the foreseeable future on our Discord! If you have any questions for us about our stories, or anything else really, we'll be there!
> 
> Our Discord is here, by the way.  
> https://discord.gg/eW88HcX
> 
> Ciao for now!


	8. Close Encounters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chloe continues her hunt for the Deer, not knowing that she is the hunted rather than the hunter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... Three months, it's taken to get this chapter done. A month behind my original schedule. Sorry!
> 
> I've decided to shelve that updating schedule idea and go back to "It'll be updated as and when" for both stories going forward as I haven't enough stability in my routine to say for certain.
> 
> As for where we're headed, this story is on the cards to ramp up from here on out. Hold onto your hats!
> 
> Hopefully, this will be more than worth the wait, and I hope you enjoy.

_Somewhere in Charlottenburg_

_25th September, 1987_

_6.50 am_

 

Chloe jolted awake once more, faintly hearing the rhythm of drumbeat and [ bars of electric guitar ](https://youtu.be/Ae829mFAGGE?t=00m35s) through the radio by her bedside, briefly interjected by the dulcet tones of the DJ running the show. She grinned mischievously at the mess of wires sprawling from the back of the radio resulting from her _'re-tuning'_ it to pick up one of the pirate stations that she'd come to know and love during her time in-country. If anything, it was a surprise to her that it hadn't been raided or shut down. Her thoughts turned back to the radio and the not-exactly-factory-spec state it was in.

 _Illegal? Almost certainly. Do I care? Absolutely fucking not._ She mused, wondering what penalty if any would be levelled against her. _I mean, the very worst charge they can write me up for is vandalising the set, and even then that's fucking pennies to fix. Probably out of my paycheck, but what the hell. Totally worth it for some decent music._

 

She swung herself out of bed and landed her feet squarely on the floor, wincing a bit as she caught a sore section of her leg, having cut it open on a chain-link fence while she was scoping a hideaway out in the relict industrial areas on the outskirts of town. A hand caressed the raised line of the healing tissue down her calf, as she cursed herself.

 _Dumbass. Double-dumbass, in fact._ She chuckled as she made herself a coffee, remembering just how quickly she'd scaled the fence again as the hound on the other side had given chase, and how the seat of her pants had only barely escaped the living shredder that was the jaws of the Schnauzer ( _all while fully expecting to be mauled by the furball that dog was,_ Chloe thought, amused) that gave chase like a heat-seeking - or perhaps scream-seeking- missile. As much as Chloe loved to play the tough badass, even she wasn't above squealing in terror and running as fast as her legs could carry her when a hundred-plus pounds of four-legged fury was actively looking to snack on a prime side of Price.

 

Besides that, the last few weeks had been as frustrating as ever, the _Deer_ once again slipping her grasp with impunity. More problematic was the condition of her backup, or more correctly the lack of it. As per one meeting with the disgruntled prick of a boss that she had the misfortune of working for, Prescott had dropped clean off the radar.

 

 _'Not even MI6 knows where he is right now, nor what his intentions are_ , he'd remarked, _'So frankly, any idea of co-operation is to take a flying fucking leap. As far as I'm concerned, he's rogue. You see him, you put a bullet in him. Clear?'_

 

Chloe turned her nose up slightly at the thought. As much as she would happily run Nathan over with a train given half a chance, she felt somewhat less compelled to harm him when she was being _ordered_ to do it. It was yet another thing she hadn't quite wrapped her head around why, but something about being ordered to kill someone made her inclined to do the exact opposite- _Take Maxine, for example_ \- every time. She sat down at the table as she sipped her drink, poring over the files detailing the _Deer's_ alleged deeds in the time it had taken her thus far on the assignment.

 

 _Basically, Andrews is trying to hate-mail and guilt-trip me over taking so long to catch a ghost_ , Chloe's opinion was on the situation. 

 

 _Frankly, I'd_ _love_ _to see someone come in and try and do my job right now, alone. A city of three million people, spread over three hundred square miles, and yet somehow it's_ _my_ _fault that things aren't moving fast enough?_ She scoffed at the thought, turning back to the contents of the various files. Even in her objective opinion, however, if even half of this was true she needed to get her act together and _fast_. As far as the information in black and white in front of her was concerned, Maxine seemed dead set on starting World War Three. Or, at the very least, stealing the right information and destabilising the right things on this side of the Wall to be able to sell the means of starting it to the highest bidder. The problem was, without a workable lead on Maxine, she couldn't even pursue her, much less stop her.

 

The epiphany hit her as the ceramic came back to touch her lip, her arm freezing in place mid-gulp.

 

 _And I've got the solution. Club Honecker._ She yelped, as the throbbing of pain from her tongue reminded her that it was still in the remainder of her mug of coffee.

* * *

_Karl-Marx Straße, Neukölln, West Berlin_

_8.00 am_

 

Chloe rolled her shoulders briefly as she got off of the crowded U-Bahn, stepping into the semi-humid air of the station. It was quite busy for a Friday, unusually so in Chloe's opinion. A mix of commuters and the odd tourist, all fighting for floorspace as they battered their path across the station and toward the stairs. Chloe moved through the crowd defensively, trying not to barge anyone over as she made her way out of the station

 _No need to start shit with people I don't need to today. Nope, I've got a big enough hornet's nest to stir up._ She reasoned, taking a quiet gasp as she met the cooler air where the steps to the U-Bahn spilled out into the street. Above ground, it was the same story as below: for whatever reason today, this quarter of Berlin was alive, moreso than she was used to seeing. Chloe shook her head. _Relax, seriously! You're that far out of sync with the land of the normal that it could be a national holiday and you'd be none the wiser._

 

Chloe had always found it somewhat ironic that one of the biggest and most notorious underground bars for Eastern sympathisers was on the _Straße_ \- well, just down an alley adjacent, but same difference- and that nobody had ever bothered shutting the place down or raiding it.

 _Then again,_ she realised, _it's a goldmine for information from over the Wall. Pretty sure that almost all the bar staff are part of, or are related to, the KGB or the Stasi, if not both._ She approached the entrance, her eyes scanning around for any trace of danger before she closed on the door. It was nothing particularly fancy, and to anyone not aware of what lay behind it. Just a simple, battered, slightly corroded metal door, not unlike the rest that led into cellars along the alleyway. She took a few paces toward the featureless concrete steps, when she heard a flurry of movement to her side. A rough-looking man, her age at best, if not younger, burst from his concealment by the dumpster she'd missed, brandishing a knife. He took a few steps toward her, his face belying his surprise when she stood her ground. He waved the blade in her face.

 

"Gib mir dein Geld, Schlampe!" He barked. 

 

Chloe rolled her eyes profusely, further aggravating the thug that was holding her at knifepoint. _What a fucking tool, he'd probably shit his pants if he had even the_ _slightest_ _idea who he was fucking with right now. Boy, he's about to get some hell of an education if he doesn't fuck off_ _this instant._

 

"Really? You think this is going to end well in _any_ way for you?" Chloe replied, not bothering with giving him the courtesy of his native tongue. The thug was gradually becoming more aggressive, the wild movements of the knife edging ever-closer to her cheek. Chloe's smart-mouthing had evidently pissed him off some more, as well.

 

"Jetzt!" He shouted at her, once more. She sighed, frustrated.

 

"Alright, I'll give you one more chance. Get the fuck out of my way, _right now_ , and I promise I won't hurt you."

 

Her aggressor pressed himself against her, knocking her back against the wall. He reeked of piss and alcohol, mainly the former. And that was just his breath. The knife's edge was pressed against the side of her neck, forcing her into taking a shallow breath. Chloe decided that enough was enough. 

_Fucker's had his chances. Now to take his ass to school._

 

Before he knew what was happening, Chloe had shot an arm up the inside of his and grabbed his wrist, twisting it and its blade violently away from her neck with a crunch and a howl from her hapless assailant. Not quite finished yet, she brought her foot up and stamped down hard on the instep of his knee, a soft and disconcerting ‘pop’ under her foot. The barely-intelligible scream of agony from her foe told her that her work was done. She pushed the broken man away from her as he lay, crying and whimpering among the garbage littering the floor. Chloe shook her head with a small smile to her lips, as she straightened her jacket up again.

 

 _Well, you were warned, asshole. Hope you like hospital food and crutches._ She thought once more, giving his pathetic form a final glance as she opened the door with a grating sound. 

 

The corridor leading to _Club Honecker_ was just as she remembered it being: plain, featureless, save for the dark stains on the carpet- _from what, I don't wanna know_ \- and bathed in a red hue of light from the bulbs haphazardly screwed into the ceiling sockets. The monotone wallpaper was peeling away from places against the wall along its seams, and also had a number of dark blotches along its base where it was roughly halted by a worn and splintered runner board along each side. It even smelled as she remembered it, the mix of metal and faint ammonia giving some hint as to what made up the various marks and blotches on the floor and walls. Chloe made a mental note to clean her boots off as soon as she possibly could after leaving. _Or burn them. In fact, the latter may be a better idea, urgh._ Attempting to minimize her grimace of displeasure at the dismal hygiene of the corridor, she reached the door at the far end, the faint muffled sounds of activity on the opposite side becoming more pronounced as she reached it. As she placed a hand on the handle, the door was roughly pulled open from the inside, dragging her into the room behind. The light was far dimmer in here, and Chloe's eyes strained to adjust. The door was slammed shut behind her and a soft click pronounced itself against the side of her head. The rest of the room had fallen silent.

 

"No funny business, miss-" The bouncer got as far as saying before Chloe acted, taking hold of his hand roughly and snapping his fingers back as they gripped the handgun, producing another loud snapping noise. The bouncer cried out in pain as she forced the weapon toward the floor and pulled it from his hand, driving a knee into his groin and scraping the foot back down his shin as she went. The unsuspecting man-mountain collapsed to the floor, groaning, as Chloe brought his weapon to bear against him, pointed squarely at his chest. The sound of clothing moving all across the room and a variety of clicks brought her back to her senses, as she took a glance. Sure enough, every patron in the club had brought their own piece to bear on her, the faint glint of steel being visible no matter where she looked.. She chuckled to herself, applying the safety to the weapon.

 

"I would highly appreciate you _not_ killing this one, Von Preußen." A voice called from behind the bar. Sure enough, there was the owner of the joint, looking as rough and bedraggled as ever, pointing his ever-faithful Mauser carbine at her. She shrugged, grinning as she loosely threw the weapon onto its owner who responded with a grunt, recoiling slightly as it struck him square in the stomach. Chloe strode toward the bar as the patrons in the bar slowly holstered their arms and resumed their business. Another glance around the room revealed that- in however long it had been since her last visit

 

"Hey, in my defence, I didn't kill the last bouncer you had." Chloe replied, cheekily, as she approached the bar and took a seat on the least grotty-looking stool she could find gingerly. "And would it kill you to deep-clean that entrance? I mean, deep-clean as in _'take a match and a jerry can to the fucker'?_ " She did her best to conceal her discontent at the aforementioned stool feeling damp and sticky under her, trying her best to suppress her thoughts as to what the substance or substances may be. _Add another item of clothing to the burn list_ , she noted.

 

The owner remained expressionless for a moment. "Sure, you didn't _kill_ the last bouncer. Only broke his skull, three vertebrae, several ribs, both his arms, dislocated a knee… oh, and you pretty much burst one of his kidneys as well. Just in case the rest of his injuries weren't enough," he reminded her. A slight smile appeared at the corner of his mouth. "Now, what does the _Mistress of Prague_ desire here? A companion, perhaps? Or would you like me to see if your dear _Stefanie_ is in town?" He taunted, giving his typical hoarse laugh as he did. A few of the other people within range to hear him joining in as well. Chloe appreciated the dim lighting of the club, as it hid well her red flush of utter humiliation. She tapped the side of her jacket, reminding him that she was armed herself. 

"Don't tempt me to shoot you, Franz. I'm not in a patient mood today." She growled in a low tone, glowering at him.

 

Franz cut off his laughter with a sigh. "Ah, you _Amerikaden,_ never a sense of humour when it comes to laughing at yourselves. Now, seriously, what do you want here?"

 

Chloe rolled her head to one side, stretching her neck slightly to iron out some of the lingering stiffness. "A drink, firstly, my usual. Then, I want some information. And I know you're good for it."

 

Franz shook his head. "Always straight to the point. Why do you guys never take the time to relax, appreciate a bit of peace and quiet. One moment, I'll get you your drink." He muttered, turning his back to pour out Chloe's drink of choice here- a double measure of whiskey, same again of Bärenfang, and the tumbler topped up to three-quarters with something a little more exotic that Franz had gotten his hands on some years earlier from out in the Orient, called _Krating Daeng._ Chloe's name for this mess of alcohol, caffeine and whatever else was a _'Tankbuster'_ , an apt enough name given that it could- and had, as she remembered- knock out even the toughest-looking of people. Chloe grasped the tumbler and tipped a mouthful of the concoction into her mouth, shuddering slightly as the mixture made its way down her throat. A slight gasp escaped her lips as she exhaled.

 

"Now, that's a drink." She whispered, smiling to herself. 

 

Franz also smiled somewhat. "Good to see a year or so at the Kommissariat's pleasure hasn't knocked your strange-as-fuck tastes out of alignment. No idea who else would buy this Thai shit otherwise." He tapped a finger on the stained and scarred wood under his palm. Chloe rolled her eyes, producing a couple of bills from her pocket and laying them onto the bar, which Franz took in with an open palm.

 

"I'll take it this extra money is to do with the second part of your business here?" 

 

Chloe nodded. "Naturally. What, you think I'd expect it of you without payment? No doubt you've heard who the Agency and the Service are running round after?"

 

Franz's expression took a darker turn, as he put up a hand to halt her. "Not out here. Backroom." He instructed, gesturing to another of the bar workers to take his place. Chloe complied immediately- rubbing a hand across her pants in disgust at the residue that had been left- and followed him through into another area of the club, slightly more sterile and clean in nature. The texture of the surfaces inside was different, a pitted sort of foam. The guards stood inside moved for their weapons, but Franz waved them down.

 

"It's alright. For once, she isn't here to try and smash someone's head to pieces."

 

The two men flanking the door relaxed- marginally- and begrudgingly holstered their arms. One closed and bolted the door behind them, sealing the virtually-soundproofed room off from the hubbub of the club outside.

 

Chloe gave Franz a smirk. "I do hope we're not in the _Quiet Room_ so that you or your cronies can beat the shit out of me."

 

Franz chuckled, heartily. "Now, would I do that?" he remarked. His chuckle slowly faded, as Chloe gave him a look brimming with snark, and the answer to his rhetorical question. "Alright, alright, perhaps I would. But, not today. No, I'll just leave your past… _wrongdoings_ , shall we say, on your tab."  Chloe simply rolled her eyes again.

“You sound like my mom used to, _putting that on your tab_ and all.” 

 

Franz stared at her, a look that would be best described as embarrassment written onto his aging features. “Do me a favour, Price. Don’t liken me to your mother _ever_ again, okay?” He fumed.

 

Chloe simply smiled. “So, what do you have for me?” she implored, again.

 

Clearing his throat slightly- if only to offset the awkwardness- Franz dug out a folder from his desk, to one side of the door. “This,” he began, flicking open the battered leather front, “is probably the most valuable thing I own. Not the clubs, not the other stuff that I own… This.”

 

Chloe couldn’t conceal her surprise very well. “ _Clubs?_ " She repeated, astonished. "I was under the impression that this was the only spot you owned. God, the Ministry of Health would have a field day if they knew,” she noted.

 

Frank chuckled darkly. “Probably. Or if my guards didn’t make them disappear. Now, this file contains everything I get in from my contacts. Perhaps it would surprise you to know that I have eyes almost everywhere in this city.”

 

Chloe kept a somewhat more calm expression than previously, in spite of the revelation being more surprising than Franz owning _multiple_ businesses. _With that much money to throw around, surely he has the disposable income to get them fixed up?_

 

“Price, are you fucking high?” Franz’s voice cut through her internal monologue. 

 

“Huh?” Chloe grunted, taken off-guard.

Franz rubbed a hand down his face, irritated. “God, you _Amerikade_ should learn to fucking listen sometimes. Okay, what you missed while you were spaced the fuck out was this: I know more about who moves where than anyone you’ll find. You morons in the intelligence services grope around in the darkness, while here I am, enjoying a crystal-clear view of everything. Take a look if you don't believe me,” he grumbled, boastingly, as he gestured to the file now spread over the desk. Chloe let out a low whistle as she scanned over the headers of the documents, memos, dossiers. Name an intelligence service, and sure enough, its information was in Franz’s hands, open to anyone with enough hard cash.

 

“Impressive, Franz. Knew you’d have something worth spilling, rather than a guard’s blood,” Chloe asserted.

 

Franz merely tipped his head, concurring. “So it would seem. To save you some of the legwork, I’ve already had a look through. It would seem as though someone has been pulling the strings with regard to your dear _Rotwild._ From what I've seen, they aren't KGB and they sure as hell aren't Stasi either. Given the number of memos here from the _Britischer Geheimdienst_ , I wouldn't be too surprised if they were behind it. One hell of an intelligence coup, that's for sure." He added.

 

Chloe's brow furrowed as she thought harder about that possibility. "But what could they possibly stand to gain from having her killed as well as disavowed? I mean, surely the bigger coup would be to displace her and flip her, wouldn't it?" She queried. _At the very least, I'd like to think the Agency wouldn't pull some bullshit like that on me._

 

A simple grunt from Franz. "So you would think. Perhaps, whoever is pulling the strings here has done so in the past. Again, my sources reliably inform me that the _Deer_ was leading up an investigation into a traitor in the ranks of the KGB shortly before all of this started happening. A double agent, if you will. As far as I've heard, there _is_ one hiding somewhere, and I don't mean on one side of the wall or another: I have it on good authority that they've been playing both sides for at least twenty years," Franz divulged, stopping there for a few moments to let the information register fully in Chloe's mind. Her face fell slightly as she rationalised everything.

 

"Of course. Maxine comes close to finding the double agent within the KGB. They freak out, murder some high-up asshole, pin it on her. _Then_ …" She stopped dead in her tracks as the dots connected. "Then on our side, they set the _Deer_ up as some kind of _'massive threat to us'_ and order her killed. She's dead, they're still hidden, case closed." 

 

Franz gave her another, slightly more serious looking smile. "So it would seem. Anything else you would like while I'm here?"

 

Chloe shook her head, taking in hand the information she had been given. "Just keep me up to date." She responded, taking out a pen and scribbling an address onto Franz's notebook. "If you get any other good leads, that's where you'll find me." Giving a brief wave and a bird to the nearest guard as she strode out the door. 

 

Franz merely shook his head. "That fucking girl will be my undoing, some day," he sneered, thinking aloud.

* * *

 

Max was sat in a more dimly-lit corner of the bar than perhaps she would have normally, sipping on her drink while she waited for Franz to appear. Of all the people she knew, he was her safest bet for information.

 _He knows so much that not even Der Amerikaden want to touch him_ , she figured. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed a commotion at the front door, as a guard flung open the door and held the young woman dragged in by it at gunpoint. She was sure she knew the figure, but in the dimness she couldn't quite tell. She smirked to herself as she watched the events unfold from there, as the woman felled him like a groaning old oak. A further glance around the main area showed that almost every man and his wench had drawn on their arms and had them pointed at her. Max sniggered. _Well, if they open fire, they're likelier to kill each other than her._  

 

"I would highly appreciate you _not_ killing this one, Von Preußen." The gruff voice from behind the bar boomed out, emanating from a man behind the bar who looked to have seen the world, an old carbine from the last world war aimed at the woman causing all the trouble as well. Max felt a slight shiver pass through her as she realised who the woman was. 

 

_That's her, the woman who was in with Uncle Walter! What the hell is she doing in here?_

 

She looked on again, to see this woman- Von Preußen- carelessly throw the guard's gun back onto him, before striding toward the bar and sheepishly sitting onto a bar stool. Max cringed slightly as she chuckled to herself.

 _Oh, that was a bad idea! She's going to hate trying to clean that shit out of those jeans._ The murmuring buzz of the bar had returned, so Max couldn't make out any of the conversation between the two. All she could see was Franz's expression change, before beckoning her to follow him. She caught a glimpse of her surreptitiously trying to wipe a hand over the seat of her pants as she did. Her eyes followed her arch-nemesis across the room, walking awkwardly on account of whatever was still plastered to her trousers. Taking in her features more properly, from her dark blonde hair, a mess that came about halfway down her neck; the face, slight shadows from marks, no doubt caused by being as roughly handled as Max had been over the years- and then there were her eyes. _Mein gott,_ Max thought, utterly absorbed by their brilliant blue. Her eyes cast lower over her neckline, and down her shoulders. Her biceps, even somewhat concealed by the old _Deutsches Heer_ jacket she wore, looked pretty muscular and well-formed, the veins in her forearms- equally well-built- bulging out just slightly. Even in the dim light, Max could make out all the nicks and rips, small as they were, across the various points on the fabric, no doubt the result of many a close scrape with death. As her eyes pored her body, she felt her cheeks get a little warmer still; the jacket of her adversary accentuating her outline from chest to hips in _just_ the right manner, tightening subtly around her upper chest, and tapering further as it ran down her body. The lines of her bust, slightly muffled by the neutrally-designed jacket, were still just about visible to anyone looking closely as she was. The jeans she wore were weathered, as the jacket and she herself was, and followed the line of her legs perfectly; her hips, albeit covered in their upper parts, bulged out against her clothing slightly, lending volume to her thighs, which appeared lithe and formly even beneath the denim; her calves were equally as shapely and smooth as they ran down into the old American military boots on her feet, scuffed and scratched across the black leather which came up to meet the base of her calves.. As she disappeared into the back room that doubled as both a staffroom of sorts and Franz's office, Max had to bury her face in her sleeve as she took a few deep breaths, burning up from her cheeks down to her stomach. _My my, is she something. Why do the enemy always have to be so damned pretty?_ She shook her head, trying in vain to rid herself of the various not-very-platonic, relatively erotic thoughts brewing in the back of her mind. _Come on, Max, you still have work to do._ A glance up at the door revealed the young woman, this _Von Preußen,_ leaving once more. 

 

Allowing her enough time to leave, and allowing herself a few moments to compose herself and get an extent of the blushing out of her cheeks, she stood up and moved towards the door. Not bothering to knock, she strode straight in. Again, the guards drew upon their weapons before Franz waved them down, all the while looking visibly surprised.

 

"Well well well, fancy having both the best American agent and the best- sorry, _ex_ -best Russian in my office in the space of ten minutes." Max uppercut the air and smacked a hand down on her bicep, her face snarled in aggravation,  as he continued. "So, what business have you here?"

 

Max grinned. "Information, _natürlich._ Just the one piece, however. And you know I'm good for it." 

 

Franz returned the smile. " _Natürlich._ What would be this piece of information that you want?"

 

Max exhaled, leaning against Franz's desk. "That Amerikaner. Do you know where she is staying at the moment?"

 

Franz's brow furrowed. "Now, hold on just a moment. You _do_ realise she is currently leading- no, she _IS-_ the Western task force assigned to put your head on a silver plate, yes?"

 

Max nodded. "Of course I do, she was in the verdammt room when I had to take out Uncle Walter." She admitted, her voice becoming quieter toward the end of the sentence as she struggled to purge the emotions from her voice.

 

"So, it was you who pulled the hit, was it?" Franz probed. 

 

Max nodded again, sullen. "Yes." She croaked. "Now, where is she?"

 

"No. I can't have you going round, killing off my other clients, can I?" Franz articulated.

Max simply gave him a knowing stare. "Who said anything about killing her?" she exhorted.

 

Franz's eyes opened wider, briefly, before he acknowledged her. "Ah." He grabbed a pencil from the table and scribbled down the address he had been left. As he went to hand the scrap of paper to Max, he was interrupted by the sound of clothing moving and a handgun being drawn. A gunshot range out, making Max jump. She glanced up to see Franz, Luger in hand, barrel smoking. She spun to look behind her. The guard by the door had his gun in his hand, but he looked unsteady on his feet. He put a hand to his jacket, it coming away red and glistening. His eyes appeared to glaze over as he slumped to the floor. "Anyone else want me to reconsider their contract?" He demanded, as he put his gun back on the desk. The surviving guards backed down immediately, as Franz handed over the slip with the address scrawled across it.

 

"There we go. Now you be safe, it'd be a shame to lose someone as good as you." Franz enunciated, as Max waved him goodbye and headed for the door.

___

Chloe took a deep breath as she pushed open the rusted door once more and found her way back out into the street, retching a bit as the scent of the fresh air and the reek of the corridor mixed in her nostrils. She shuddered, still coughing softly under her breath as she slammed the door shut behind her. There must have been a shower or a downpour while she had been inside, as the alleyway now had a few small pools of water formed in the dips where the asphalt and concrete had been worn down, the human detritus of old newspaper and other discarded objects sodden by the rain. Chloe noticed in passing, while concerning herself as best she could with clearing the vile stench from her nose before her stomach

 

 _Jesus fucking Christ, egh! That stinks worse than I remember._ She ran a hand across the back of her pants again, now that she was less likely to be being watched from a distance, and grimaced openly at the slimy residue still coating her pants. She roughly wiped it off on her thigh, not even entertaining the idea of finding out what it smelled of, balling her fist up and rubbing her fingers against her palm some more in utter disgust at the circumstance.

 _So long as I don’t smell like I’ve shit my pants, I can live with it for now. Seriously, Franz, would it kill you to fucking clean the place once in a lifetime or three?!_ As it was, it- thankfully- wasn’t making moving about uncomfortable, so she could at least walk normally in spite of the fact. She had no idea of how long her meeting with Franz had taken, but the street outside seemed to have emptied out somewhat, even through her narrow view of the alleyway. She stepped out into the street, rolled her shoulders, and begun the short walk back toward the U-Bahn. As she glanced around, she found it increasingly unusual that there was such an absence of people milling about in the street. She shot a look at her watch.

_Two in the afternoon. Something isn’t right, there should be way more activity than this around here right now. Even the homeless bums aren’t around, and they don’t tend to move on for anyone or anything. Even with the rain, most people here couldn’t give a fuck. No, this isn’t right._

She glanced inside some of the cars still festooning the areas on both sides of the sidewalk as she passed them: some of them still had keys in the ignition, some even still had the engines warm or running- almost as though their drivers had vanished into thin air. It made almost no sense to Chloe as she As she pondered this, a black sedan approached from behind her, moving slowly in the same direction as her. Its tire caught a puddle on the road, alerting Chloe to its presence. She glanced toward it, almost failing to pay any real attention as she puzzled the mystery of the near-empty street. As she did so, one of its rear windows- tinted to match the sleek black of the bodywork- rolled down to reveal a man inside, wearing shades and a suit. Her heart almost stopped dead in her chest as she saw the silenced pistol in his hand, being brought to bear against her, his hand all the way out of the window. With barely a moment’s hesitation, she slammed herself to the floor behind one of the parked cars, feeling glass shower the back of her neck as the shooter missed her and blew out one of its windows. She heard them curse loudly- in English- and the screech of tyres as her would-be assassins went to make their getaway. Chloe slammed her hands into the pavement and forced herself to her feet, her right hand shooting behind her as she stood up to whip out her gun. A few stray shots whizzed past her as she brought herself onto target against the speeding car, now about twenty meters away. The receiver bucked in her hand as she unleashed a round at the car with a loud crack, putting a hole in its rear window, forcing the driver to take evasive action. Another, striking the rear fender and pinging into the city sky. Another, striking the license plate. Just before the car got too far from view, she committed the plate number to memory. As the car careened round the block and out of view, she slotted her gun back into the back of her pants and thought over what had just happened. She took a few paces out onto the road, glancing each way to make sure she was safe, and scanned the street. Lying in line with where the first shout had been fired, give or take, was a casing lying on the floor. Chloe picked it up, running it through her fingers as she inspected it.

 _Nine-millimeter parabellum. Shit, that’s the right calibre for a High-Power!_ The remaining piece of information clicked into place in her head, as she ran a frantic hand up and through her hairline, dragging it over and down the back of her neck.

 _The plates on that car were British Embassy plates as well. That wasn’t some random drive-by, that was someone inside the wire sending a hit out on me. Someone within the British service. SHIT! But who the fuck has the power to send out a hit like that, other than…_ her eyes bulged in their sockets slightly as the notion passed through her mind.

 _No. There’s no fucking chance Mark would send a hit out on me. And I’d have smelled a rat before now if_ _he_ _was the fucking traitor, surely?_

Chloe shook her head, striding quickly for the U-Bahn entrance and considering her options.

* * *

Several hours later, as dusk was descending, Chloe began stumbling slightly over the steps. Her brain was a little fuzzy on account of how late in the day it was, and the whisky she had drunk later in the day mixing with the _Tankbuster_ she’d had at Franz’s. Slouching against the doorframe of her apartment, she fumbled the keys into the lock and cranked them round in the lock before flinging the door open clumsily, stuffing said keys back into her pocket roughly. She staggered into the centre of the doorway, reaching up with her left hand and flicking the switch on the wall, pitching the blackness into a dingy yellow from the single bulb. In the centre of the room was a chair, that Chloe hadn’t left there. On the chair, with a silenced pistol across her lap, sat a woman, one foot on the floor, the ankle of the other resting on its knee. The woman calmly brought her handgun to bear on Chloe, who froze with a mixture of fear and uncertainty.

“Close the door behind you, please, and don’t try anything stupid.” The woman directed, motioning with the gun in her hand. Chloe shakily reached for the edge, swinging the door shut behind her. Her hands trembled as she raised them, and she could feel teardrops on the edge of her eyes. The woman slid her foot back onto the floor, and stood up, approaching Chloe slowly. Chloe ran a brief look up and down her: the light was casting a shadow over her face, but the hair looked familiar, a shoulder-length brown, slightly messy like her own; her intruder was built slightly slimmer than her as well, while retaining an equally strong physique. She seemed to walk with the slightest hint of a limp, but it was well-camouflaged regardless. The woman stood just outside Chloe’s reach, tilting her head slightly. Chloe felt a cold shudder pass through her as she realised who she was stood face to face with.

_This is her. This is the Deer. Shit, I knew giving Franz my address would be a bad idea!_

 

“So, we meet again. Now, I know for a fact you must be armed, if you have any sense. Hand it over.” The Deer continued, gesturing with the hand not aiming the gun at Chloe’s torso to do so. Chloe began bringing her right hand down toward the grip. Max tutted at her, bringing her finger onto the trigger. “Other hand, I’m not stupid.” She elaborated. Chloe gulped, nodding and re-raising her right hand while shakily drawing the weapon from her waistband with her left hand, holding it out in front of her. Max took it from her hand, inspecting it while keeping her weapon trained on Chloe.

“Colt Commander. Forty-five calibre. Haven’t seen one of those in a while.” She stated, thinking aloud.

 

Chloe balled her fists, gritting her teeth. “Of course you should recognise it, you were the _fucker_ who killed the person who owned that last. _Red Deer._ Maxine Caulfield. I know who, and what you are.”

 

Max tilted her head at Chloe briefly, looking confused. Slowly, her features softened and she relaxed, though not enough to give Chloe any chance to overpower her. “So, you’re the daughter of Wilhelm Von Preußen. I knew the name sounded familiar. Chloë, is it? And ‘Max’ will do fine, thank you, none of the other… pleasantries, if you would be so kind.” Max put Chloe’s handgun down on the floor, closing in on her. She pressed the muzzle of the silencer into Chloe’s stomach, just above her navel, as she reached a hand up, brushing Chloe’s hair away from her face as the latter flinched away, uncomfortably. Max gazed at Chloe’s eyes for a moment, losing herself ever-so-subtly in them once more.

“You do have your father’s eyes, that’s for certain.” She purred. “And you say that I killed him. I was there when he died, that is all. I played no part in his death. _We_ played no part in his death.” She affirmed, as she went on. 

Chloe couldn’t believe what she had just heard. The Deer, Maxine, The KGB… They _weren’t_ the ones who had killed her dad. It couldn’t be true. It couldn’t! The emotions that had been set spinning in Chloe’s head were making her feel light-headed, dizzy. Her stomach broiled with an acidic feel, like she was going to be sick; every breath felt like she was being tear-gassed again.

“You’re lying!” Chloe sputtered, her voice on the verge of cracking as tears began to roll down her cheeks.

 

Max simply shook her head. “Believe it or not, that’s the honest truth of the matter. If anything, I did what I could do save your dear _Wilhelm_.” She averted Chloe’s gaze, her expression briefly more sullen, before turning to look at her once more. “Look. Whatever is happening out there, whoever called the shots the night your- father- died, I think they’re still out there. I think the same person who had him killed is the same one who has set me up.”

 

“You’re wrong! You caused all of this, you bitch!” Chloe snapped, through her emotional breakdown.

 

Max simply gave her a more neutral stare in return. “I know they have you after me, the prize _Bluthund_ of the West. But I’m being honest with you. I’m innocent in all of this, and I want to find up which bastard has set me up as much as you want to find whoever had your dear father killed.” She continued.

 

“I-I can’t trust... you!” Chloe stammered. “You’re the-”

 

Max rolled her eyes. “ _Der Feinde_ . Naturally. Think about it: if I was _really_ the bad girl in all of this, would we be stood here having this conversation right now? Or, would I have blown you away the moment you were stood in the door?” She reached into her pocket, producing a handkerchief in her palm, as she carried on. “All I’ll say for now is _think about it_. At the very least, be sure that I am in fact the enemy, before you pull the trigger. I’ve been here too long already.” With that, she jerked her hand up, covering Chloe’s mouth and nostrils with it. Chloe breathed in sharply in surprise at the sudden move, inhaling its contents as it was pressed tighter to her face. Max slipped behind Chloe, one hand to her throat as she did so. Chloe’s head spun, as did the room, as she took on more of the alcohol-like vapour. Her vision blurred as she fought to keep her eyes open, ultimately failing as she slumped, unconscious. Max’s hands arrested her fall, slowly taking her to the floor as she sighed a few deep, irregular breaths.

 

A short while later, Max had cleaned up the room, removing everything she needed to, and was stood over Chloe where she lay. On the desk behind her was everything she intended to leave for her adversary. She leaned down, planting a soft, quiet kiss on her cheek.

“Angenehme Träume, Chloë.” She whispered in her ear, before heading to the door, flicking the light off, and departing, closing the door behind her.

* * *

Chloe groaned as her senses groggily returned, beginning with a stinging pain in her head. Her hearing was still blurred, but she could hear the faint traffic outside at any rate. The cool air of the room passed over her skin, making her shiver slightly. Chloe flicked an eye open as she realised she could feel the air passing over almost all of her body. She dopily moved her limbs, still uncooperative, and ran a hand over herself, finding her clothes missing: A glance down herself revealed that instead of the hard wood floor of the room itself, which was what she last remembered hurtling toward, she was lying on the soft linen of her bed; her clothes lay to one side on a chair, her boots underneath; she, meanwhile, lay on her side on top of the sheets, with only her boxer shorts and bra on. She ran a hand over her face as she tried to piece together what had happened. She drew a blank, roughly around the time Maxine- Max- had put the handkerchief of whatever up against her mouth.

 

 _What the fuck was that? Why didn’t she pop me when she had the chance?_ Chloe scanned an eye around the room, hoping to perhaps be able to ask that question, but all that her eyes fell on were a stack of files, on the table across the room. Chloe tried to get out of bed and walk across to them, but her legs initially refused to cooperate, buckling under her and depositing her on the floor. Groggily, she clambered onto her feet again, and reached the table. On it, lay files from all kinds of agencies, including her own. On top of those lay a handwritten note. It had a single line written upon it.

_Just be sure that you kill the right enemy._

Chloe dropped herself onto her chair, propping her elbows on the table and allowing her head to fall into her hands as she tried to wrap her head around everything: from what she could remember of what Max had said- that neither she nor the Soviet authorities had been responsible for killing her dad- to the possibility that they were after the same person; from Max’s choosing not to kill or even harm her, quite the opposite in fact.

 

 _I should have been named Alice, surely. This rabbit-hole goes way deeper than I’d expected._ She read through a number of the files, her stomach turning at some of the information within, before setting her mind on what her next move would be.

* * *

_Twelve hours later_

_MI6 Operations Centre, Berlin_

 

The figure sat behind the oak desk, taking a few sips from a tumbler of matured scotch they had brought with them, as they flicked through the files that had wound up on their desk. Almost every other employee had gone back home for the night, save for the young secretary sat on the other side of the locked door. A single lamp illuminated the immediate area around the papers being read. A pensive frown cast over their face, as they wiped their mouth and put the tumbler back on the desk, reading on.

“Interesting.” A Scotch accent softly echoed in the room, evidently thinking aloud.

“Very interesting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **TRANSLATIONS:**  
>  Gib mir dein Geld, Schlampe!: "Give me your money, bitch!" (Hence Chloe's comment of 'how original')  
> Jetzt!: "Now!"  
> Britischer Geheimdienst: British Secret Service (aka MI6).  
> Von Preußen: "Price". [I think? Let me know if that wouldn't be correct below!]  
> Mein gott: "My God." [i.e. 'Oh My God']  
> Deutsches Heer: German Army [originally had it written in as Bundeswehr, went back and corrected it to this as I'm guessing the services have different uniform to some extent?]  
> Natürlich: "Naturally" [or, as we might also say in English, 'obviously'.]  
> Amerikaner: American  
> Verdammt: "Damned"  
> Wilhelm: "William"[Price, i.e. Chloe's tragically-late father]  
> Bluthund: "Bloodhound"  
> Der Feinde: "The Enemy" [Hence Max rolling her eyes- Natürlich!]  
> Angenehme Träume: "Sweet Dreams"  
> ___  
> [Quick history lesson: Krating Daeng is basically a Thai version of Red Bull, which first hit Asia's shelves in the mid-70s.]  
> Predates the caffeinated and taurine-laced drink we headcases all know and mix with spirits like we aren't supposed to today...]  
> ___  
> So... things got a little hotter. Not to spoil too much, but things are going to kick up a into the next gearbox ratio now, as we start to hit into the stride of Act II in earnest. Expect utter f---ing carnage, let's put it that way. 
> 
> And yes, yes I do like torturing you all with a good bit of slow-burn. Why else are me and Lazy tagged to the role of "Sadist" in the Discord server?
> 
> [Yes, here is the link again for those who haven't found the front door yet. Get over your hangovers already!: https://discord.gg/eW88HcX]
> 
> See you next time (hopefully within the next three months, or as soon as I finish the next chapter after writing the next for _What The Future Holds_
> 
> Adieu!


End file.
